


Maybe Sprout Wings

by casuallyneurotic



Series: Maybe Sprout Wings Universe [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Dean Winchester, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester Has Trust Issues, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nightmares, No mpreg, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Rehabilitation, Scenting, Sexual Slavery, Slave Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Socially Awkward Castiel (Supernatural), Therapy, Unreliable Narrator, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 38
Words: 195,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyneurotic/pseuds/casuallyneurotic
Summary: Castiel doesn’t know where the runaway in Dean has gone, but he’s not sure that man exists anymore. The omega in his backseat has been badly broken. He hasn’t said a word to Castiel; hasn’t protested aside from flinching, hasn’t even pleaded to be spared. He’s just… empty. Tired. Castiel can smell layers of fear, sour and old on the omega’s skin, an emotion so often felt that it’s now a permanent stain on his scent. He can only begin to imagine what Dean has been through to put him in this state of apathy.At sixteen years old, Dean Winchester signed away his life in order to protect what he loves most. He's spent the last eleven years as the property of various alphas, each crueler than the last. Purchased by a new master that promises him nothing but safety, his life is about to dramatically change - and with any luck, it will be for the better.Updates on Sundays!
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Maybe Sprout Wings Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176434
Comments: 3302
Kudos: 2306
Collections: Destiel ✦ The Road To Freedom, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> This is going to be a long one. It's the first fic I've ever written for the Supernatural fandom, and I hope it's worth the read. I've got quite a few chapters done already, and the rest of the fic planned out.

So far, Dean Winchester has not looked at him. Not even once. 

Castiel tries to focus on the road, gripping the wheel a little more firmly. Tries not to think about how the young omega had stepped toward the trunk when he'd led him out to the car, how he'd looked dazed and uncomprehending when Castiel had told him to sit in the back instead. How he’d slid to his knees on the floor rather than sit on the seat and how he’d flinched back when Castiel had tried to unclip the leash on his collar, straining away from him with his eyes wide and unfocused; pale, trembling hands still clutched behind his back even though Castiel had taken off the handcuffs almost an hour ago. 

He tries not to think about how, immediately after the omega had flinched, the scent of _sorry_ and pure fear had flooded the car so fast that Castiel had almost choked, and how Dean had hunched down even further and presented his throat even though every instinct inside of him was probably telling him to do the opposite. Castiel had unclipped his leash with fumbling hands, and with his fingers so close to Dean’s neck, he’s pretty sure the omega had stopped breathing. 

He tries not to think about how, despite his obvious terror, Dean _still_ hadn’t made a single sound.

Almost an hour has passed since they started driving and the young man has not moved from his position on the floor. Head down, hands behind his back. He doesn’t try to brace himself whenever they turn corners – just sways, falls, and picks himself up with more and more difficulty but never any complaints, eyes hollow. Castiel’s knuckles whiten when he stops at a red light a little too fast and the kid’s shoulder bounces against the passenger seat with enough force to scatter his bill of sale and other documents. 

He’s _not_ a kid, not really, but Castiel catches himself thinking of him that way. Dean turned twenty-seven a few days ago, according to his paperwork. But he’s probably a hundred pounds soaking wet and he’s been in the trade since he legally could at _sixteen_. So he _is_ young, even though the haunted look in his eyes is enough to tell Castiel that Dean has suffered enough for a hundred of his lifetimes. 

Castiel himself is only thirty, but he feels much older when he looks at Dean. Feels protective, too, and he’s not sure if that’s just his conscience speaking or something more instinctual. He’s never been a particularly… _traditional_ alpha, but the smell of Dean’s fear and pain has awakened something in him that has long lain dormant. 

Dean hadn’t resisted anything they’d done to him at the auction house. He’d passively allowed them to drag him into the room, hadn’t protested when they shoved him down to his knees. But when he’d been ordered to his feet, he’d stumbled, and a handler had impatiently jerked him up off the floor by his collar. Dean _had_ reacted then – he’d made a choked, panicked little noise that had twisted something in Castiel so hard that it’d broken something open inside. 

And so he’d bared his teeth and a deep, furious, _alien_ sound had lunged out of him that had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. 

He’s never _growled._ It had felt right, at the time, but when he thinks about it now he can’t help but feel a little… feral. He’s lucky they’d taken his behavior as possessiveness and not protest, or he might not have been able to buy Dean at all. It doesn’t bode well for the coming months. If Castiel cannot keep his temper now, he will be even more useless as a caretaker than he’d feared.

He closes his eyes as he waits for the light to turn and tries not to hate Jody for thinking he could do this, for making him pretend to be something he isn’t. He’s not a counselor or a fosterer. He’s the money behind their rescue operation, sure – but that’s _all_ he’s ever been. Castiel has never been hands-on during rehabilitation, both because slaves usually don’t react well to alphas and because he isn’t really cut out for what is, essentially, _therapy_ in the slightest. 

But Dean’s had been an especially tough case – one he couldn’t turn away. Jody had, as usual, convinced him with fire in her eyes as she laid out Dean’s story of abuse and escape attempts from an infamous brothel. 

Castiel doesn’t know where the runaway in Dean has gone, but he’s not sure that man exists anymore. The omega in his backseat has been badly broken. He hasn’t said a word to Castiel; hasn’t protested aside from flinching, hasn’t even pleaded to be spared. He’s just… empty. _Tired_. Castiel can smell layers of fear, sour and old on the omega’s skin, an emotion so often felt that it’s now a permanent stain on his scent. He can only begin to imagine what Dean has been through to put him in this state of apathy. 

Hopefully, he isn’t beyond repair. This is his second chance, as sad as that is.

Hell – the brothel, aptly named – had finally been shut down. _Firebombed_ , in fact, by anti-slave extremists. Dean had been the only known survivor. Other brothels all over the state had been hit in the same week with more amateur bombs, ones that had ruined the buildings but left most of the occupants alive. The operators who had survived the blasts had been forced to sell their stock, or go bankrupt – none of them had back-up properties where they could legally house that many slaves. 

So, naturally, there’d been a flood of slaves on the local market. Novak Rehabilitation and Reintegration had purchased every one they could, pushing their resources to the limit. They’d gone _far_ over their normal capacity. Hence, why Castiel has Dean in his car, and why he’s taking him home rather than to the main campus. 

There’d been _literally_ no one else to take him. 

Someone honks at him and he startles, wrenching his eyes away from Dean. Raising a hand in apology, he eases his foot onto the gas and turns through the last few streets left in the city before he begins the long trek through the backroads that lead to his home. For once, he’s grateful that he lives out in the middle of nowhere, and that he has a house that’s far bigger than he’d ever need. Both will be a boon to the recovery of the man in his back seat. 

Probably the only pros in a long list of cons.

The snow has stopped falling by the time he pulls up in his driveway, and he opts not to pull into his garage so that the already spooked omega doesn’t feel too penned in. Outside, the world is quiet, any noise muffled by the snow and the low clouds, and again he’s thankful for them both that he lives far away from prying eyes. The pretense he’d had to keep up at the auction house will never be needed here.

Dean is already shivering by the time Castiel opens the passenger door, his eyes low, his hands still locked behind him even as he sways in exhaustion. He doesn’t look up. They’ve been in the car for a little over two hours – Castiel is, frankly, shocked that the omega is even upright. 

“Dean,” Castiel prompts gently, heart clenching when the omega flinches at the sound. “We’re here. Can you get out of the car for me?” He wishes he’d thought to bring an extra jacket. Dean is wearing nothing but the loose slave garments the auction house provided for him, threadbare and dingy. But, as is typical, his common sense has failed him – and with the campus as overwhelmed as it is, Balthazar had not been able to help him prepare as much as either of them would have liked. 

With no hesitation, despite his obvious exhaustion, Dean scrambles to do as he’s told. He lurches out of the car and onto the driveway – and, arms flailing as he goes, loses his balance and slips precariously toward a pile of slush. 

Castiel grabs him by the back of his shirt reflexively, attempts to lift him to his feet – his _bare_ feet, which he is only now remembering – and that’s finally enough to make Dean’s composure break. 

The omega cries out, _wrenches_ himself away, eyes white and wild as he covers the back of his neck with his hands and crouches low. It’s only now that Castiel remembers he shouldn’t have touched anywhere near there. He takes a step back and into the yard, into the _snow,_ and Castiel wishes he’d decided to pull into the garage instead. He hadn’t wanted to make Dean feel trapped around his alpha scent. Little good it has done him now. 

“Relax,” he coaxes, hands held low where the omega can see them. Far from Dean’s collar. “Take a breath. Just relax.” He tries to make his scent soothing, tries to convey with his tone and his posture that he isn’t a threat, no matter how much of one Dean sees him as. “It’s very cold out here, Dean,” he says slowly, careful not to move forward and spook him more, “and it’s quite warm in the house. Don’t you think it would be nice to go inside?”

He’d known Dean would be a flight risk when he opened the door, and he still hadn’t put the leash on his collar. Hadn’t been able to make himself. He’d only done it at the facility because it was expected, and he’d feared they wouldn’t have allowed him to leave otherwise. Keeping up appearances was a good idea if he wanted to be able to purchase slaves in the future – no one would sell to someone planning to free their stock. So he’d reluctantly clipped the lead to Dean’s collar and had walked excruciatingly slowly to the car, careful not to pull or put any pressure on the young man’s neck, and as soon as he’d been away from prying eyes he’d unclipped the stupid thing and thrown it over the seats. 

From the way Dean had cowered away from his hand even then, he should have been able to guess that any kind of touch would not be welcome.

Dean’s breathing is harsh and loud in the quiet of his yard, puffs of air escaping him like a train, and quite suddenly Castiel has to confront the reality that the omega might bolt. He’s sure he’s about to, in fact, because the man’s muscles tighten like coiled springs, and his fear-scent floods Castiel’s nose in a wave – and he _snarls_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dean’s breathing is harsh and loud in the quiet of his yard, puffs of air escaping him like a train, and quite suddenly Castiel has to confront the reality that the omega might bolt. He’s sure he’s about to, in fact, because the man’s muscles tighten like coiled springs, and his fear-scent floods Castiel’s nose in a wave – and he snarls._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd post two chapters to start out since the first one was so short. Moving forward, they should all be about this length.

For a fraction of a moment, he can see the man that Dean must have been – the runaway, the fighter. The one who had been dragged back to the training centers again and again for years, and had _still_ kept resisting; the one who had survived nearly five years in a place that was infamous for killing slaves in less than one. 

He takes a breath and prepares to chase him down for his own safety. After all, _healthy_ runaway slaves don’t always make it through recapture, let alone ones that are as emaciated and weak – and likely injured – as Dean is. Not to mention the fact that Dean is barefoot, and it’s snowing, and the tracker in his collar will get him caught in no time at all even though Castiel wouldn’t report him missing. 

But just before he can lunge forward, Dean’s flash-bang defiance sputters and dies all on its own. He closes his eyes, his throat convulsing, and sucks in a tight breath, then another. When he opens them again and stares at the snow at Castiel’s feet, the frenetic aggression has vanished from his expression. In its stead, there is only old, well worn defeat, and fear that makes Castiel’s soul ache. 

His hands drop from the back of his neck and he tips his head to the side to show his throat. His pulse is visible, fast and strained. Even with his limited experience with traditional designation roles, Castiel can recognize this gesture – Dean is showing _submission_. 

“S-sorry.” 

It’s the first time he’s spoken, and his voice is raspy. Weak. It’s so at odds with the flare of defiance he’d seen a moment ago that he can only blink stupidly for a moment. “I won’t… I won’t r-run. Sorry,” Dean repeats, when Castiel doesn’t reply. His teeth are chattering, and his arms wrap around his middle, but he doesn’t complain about the cold. He just closes his eyes again, crouched low to the ground despite the frigid snow. “P-Please. D-don’t make me st-stay outs-side. P-please.”

Castiel swallows around the hard lump in his throat, fights against the million reassurances he wants to give because his words will mean nothing to Dean – not now, and probably not any time soon. He finds his own voice, after a moment. “No need to apologize. Let’s get you warmed up.”

Dean follows him obediently through the front door, his gait stumbling. He’s obviously in pain – holding himself gingerly, arms cinched around his ribs – but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s shaking violently even in the warm air of the house and Castiel wants to kick himself for letting him stand in the damn _snow_ for any length of time. It’s probably the first mistake out of many he’s going to make. 

The collar around Dean’s neck is hard to look at. He tries not to think about how the most recent RFID chip inside of it is loaded with _his_ phone number and address, how he had to give _his_ thumb print for the scanner key. How, if Dean does run, it will be _him_ that the capture-cops will refer to for preferences on punishment, even if they will do what they please at the end of the day. 

His first thought had been to remove the hateful thing as soon as possible, but Balthazar had warned him against that. Something about how it would just make the omega panic. Castiel’s not sure how removing the man’s symbol of enslavement would be anything aside from a cause for celebration, but he trusts Balthazar enough to heed his advice to keep from changing too much too fast.

Dean sways where he stands, struggling to hold himself upright while Castiel drowns himself in selfish self pity, and he snaps back into the present with a guilty start. “Are you hungry?”

The omega’s breath picks up instantly. He steps back against the wall, crouching lower than he already had been, his hands twitching up like he wants to protect his neck. He thinks better of it and goes still. His face is pale.

The first instinct Castiel has is to step forward and grab hold of the man’s hands and pour out reassurances so that he won’t be afraid anymore. The strength of that desire surprises him – he’s never been particularly emotional, never been much of a caretaker. In the end, though, his logic wins out – he has enough sense to know that doing anything along those lines will go very wrong very quickly. So he takes a step back instead.

“Just for dinner, Dean. It’s only food.”

He tries to keep his voice low and soothing, tries to keep the nerves out of his tone, and that seems to help. Dean’s breath slows a bit, his hand going out to the table next to the door to keep him steady. His voice is weak when he speaks. “Dinner?”

“Yes. I cooked ahead of time, since I knew you’d probably be hungry when we got home.”

Dean still hasn’t looked at him, but from this close Castiel can see his mouth trembling. His cheekbones are prominent on his face, and though he’s wearing loose clothes Castiel can tell he’s skin and bones. It’s not really a question of whether or not Dean _is_ hungry – of course he is. He is quite literally starving. The auction houses don’t feed their slaves anything above the bare minimum, and when Dean had been in legal limbo he likely hadn’t been fed at all. 

Now, it’s just a question of whether or not he’ll be trusting enough – or, more likely, _scared_ enough – to eat the food an alpha he has every reason to fear is giving him. 

“What do I… what do I do for it?”

His voice is hardly louder than a whisper, broken in all the wrong places, and Castiel can’t make himself think about why that might be the case. “You won’t have to earn meals here. I expect you to eat.”

Dean’s brow furrows. It’s clearly not the answer he was expecting, but Castiel can’t explain right now. Can’t tell him that he won’t have to earn his keep here, can’t tell him that he won’t have to fight tooth and nail just to survive anymore. He wants to, but Bal had said to keep it simple at first. To lay out his expectations in the form of what _he_ wants Dean to do.

Sure enough, the omega gives a slow nod to show he’s understood. If it wasn’t so quiet in the house, Castiel would have missed the whispered, “Yes, master,” that accompanies it. 

He feels dizzy. He feels _sick_. “Please, don’t. Don’t call me that.”

 _That’s_ not what Bal told him to do, but he doesn’t care. He can’t stand the thought of Dean calling him that hateful word, of him expecting Castiel to do the same things that all the rest of his owners have done. He _can’t._

Dean’s mouth opens, a question on the cusp of it, and then it snaps shut like a rat trap. He doesn’t say anything else. He just continues to shiver, tips his chin back even further to show his jugular. A new fear as seeped into his scent. Understanding slaps Castiel in the face – Dean thinks he’s made a mistake and that he is going to be punished for it. 

Castiel can’t even begin to imagine what he could say to make Dean understand that isn’t the case. So he says nothing. He leads Dean into the house, snagging a blanket off the couch on his way to the kitchen. When he hands it over, the omega holds it like a live grenade.

While he starts getting dinner ready, Dean hesitates in the doorway to the dining room, his eyes flicking around nervously while he thinks Castiel isn’t paying attention. Castiel grimaces at what he must be thinking. He is a very wealthy man, and though the vast majority of his assets have been poured into the foundation, it still shows in his home. He’d bought it, and most of the things that furnish it, many years before he started the work he does now, back when he’d been a young, stupid alpha with his family’s blood money burning holes in his pockets. 

Considering that the first entry of Dean’s file had been a record of him selling _himself_ into the trade at the far too young – but at the time, legal – age of sixteen, Castiel doesn’t think he’s going to look too kindly on shows of excess. He wonders who that money had ended up with. Young omegas, he knows, typically go for high dollar on the market. 

“Are you thirsty?”

Dean jumps, startled by the break in silence. With far more hesitance than Castiel can understand, he nods. “Okay. Sit down, and I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He pulls the casserole he made earlier out of the fridge, turns up the oven and slides it in. Then he’s so focused on keeping his hands from shaking as he fills a glass from the sink that it’s not until he turns around that he realizes his mistake – Dean is on his knees on the tile, hands behind him as he grips his own wrists. Head down. The blanket is in front of him in a crumpled pile, not touching him in the slightest. 

Castiel bites his tongue. This, too, Bal had warned him about. Told him it would be normal for Dean to kneel, to ignore furniture. He’d been trained that way. Just another way that slaves are dehumanized. It rips something open inside of him when he thinks about how a man like Dean must have been treated for that behavior to be his first and only instinct.

He steps forward slowly, crouching in front of the omega and swallowing an apology when he cringes lower, away from his alpha scent and his alpha hands. As gently as he can, he picks up the abandoned blanket and drapes it around Dean’s shoulders because, honestly, he doesn’t know what else to do.

Dean is utterly frozen under his gaze for a moment. Then, he _panics_ – breath picking up and fear scent wrapping around them both like a noose. 

“I– I’m sorry, I didn’t – I didn’t unders-stand why you – I d-didn’t mean to – I –” He’s babbling, the words spilling out of him like marbles on tile, frantic and horrified, sure that he’s just signed his own death warrant by refusing his master’s implied order. 

“It’s alright, Dean.” He resists the urge to grab the young man by his shoulders, keeping his voice calm and steady instead, because even _he_ can understand that’s what Dean needs right now. “I’m not angry. I simply didn’t want you to be cold.” 

He steps back, gives him space. Dean shakes, pale and scared and small on the tile of his ostentatious kitchen, his eyelids screwed shut as he tries to calm himself down with a practiced sort of desperation that makes Castiel’s heart twist in his chest. Eventually, he manages to pull himself together enough to hold the blanket around his shoulders with one white, trembling hand. “Th-thank you. Sorry,” he whispers again, and there’s no small amount of shame in his voice. It makes Castiel’s teeth clench.

He nods and returns to his original task, placing the glass of water in front of Dean rather than handing it to him. But Dean just looks at it, then at him, his eyes wide and confused. 

“You can take it.”

He does, after a short breath of hesitance, holding it in his hand like it might come alive and bite him. It takes far too long for Castiel to realize that he’s waiting for _permission,_ and it makes his skin crawl when he realizes he has to say, “You can drink it, Dean.”

Dean does, moving fast enough that Castiel knows he was desperately thirsty. When the glass is empty, he holds it far away from himself like he’s showing Castiel that he’s followed his orders. 

“More?”

Dean’s grip tightens around the glass like he’d been expecting a kick rather than kindness, but after a moment, he nods, the movement as cautious as if he were picking his way through a field of landmines. Castiel’s fingers barely brush his when he takes the cup, but it’s enough to make Dean flinch, head tucking down further into his chest when he snatches his hand away. He resolves to be more careful.

When he’s refilled the water three or four times, Dean finally lowers the glass from his mouth without finishing. Castiel looks at him questioningly and he flinches, raises it back up as though he believes he _has_ to drink, and it’s all he can do to not yank the cup out of his hand. “You can stop, if you are no longer thirsty,” he blurts. 

It’s only now hitting him that _this_ is the level of cruelty Dean expects from him – to not even be able to control how much _water_ he drinks. 

God, he is in _far_ over his head.

The glass falls from Dean’s mouth, a relieved slump to his shoulders as he pulls away. He sets the cup in front of himself so gently that it makes no noise on the tile, even though his hands are shaking when he holds the blanket close to his chest. 

By now, the casserole is warm, and Castiel scoops more than he normally would onto a plate and sets it in front of Dean as well, along with a fork. Dean doesn’t tear into it right away, staring down at it instead. The expression on the young omega’s face is one of desperate confusion. Dean’s scent is screaming _malnutrition,_ screaming _starvation_ , but the man still isn’t eating. He’s too scared to do so. 

“You can eat that,” he says, and he can’t get the words out of his mouth fast enough.

But Dean doesn’t tear into it like Castiel expected him to, like he’d done with the water. The fork is gripped in his hand like a blunt instrument instead of a utensil. Castiel doubts he’s had much practice with them in the last few years. The scent of his fear is layered, stale under fresh, and clings to him so strongly that Castiel cannot tell what Dean is _supposed_ to smell like, cannot even get a whiff of him. 

Trying to give the man space, he retreats back to the counter and fills up his own plate, the knife clinking against the dish in the silence. He sits down at the table without much fanfare, digging in despite his lack of appetite, hoping that it will put Dean more at ease. But instead of being reassured by his enthusiasm for his food, the omega is looking down at his own with naked confusion. His eyes dart up to Castiel’s plate every so often. He wonders if Dean knows how to eat this, if he remembers actual meals that are cooked with care and eaten with a fork at a table. 

“You can eat, Dean,” he says again, stomach curling at the knowledge that Dean is too scared to do so even with express permission. 

Dean takes a breath, his eyes low. His voice is no louder than a whisper, painfully raw from abuse that Castiel never wants to consider. “But you’re… this is… mine? Too?”

Castiel frowns. There is obviously something in particular that’s scaring Dean – something bad enough that he’s choosing to _starve_ when he has a plate of food in his hands, choosing to question someone he’s terrified of – but he doesn’t know what the problem is and he doesn’t think it would be fair to the omega to ask him to explain himself. “Yes. That’s food for you.” He’s not sure how else to communicate that, so he reluctantly changes his suggestion into an order. A gentle one, but an order nonetheless. “Please, eat it.”

Dean ducks his head back down, nervous, and apologizes quietly. “That’s alright, Dean. You don’t have to apologize for asking questions. I know that this is… probably different from what you’re used to.”

The omega’s eyes linger on Castiel – somewhere around his shins, he thinks – before he nods jerkily. The fork shakes quite a bit when he lifts it and stabs it into the casserole, and only half of what’s on it makes it to his mouth. But when he chews and swallows the relief on his face is enough to make Castiel’s chest ache with sympathy, and, as Dean releases a quiet sigh, the sharp sizzle of hunger fades ever so slightly from the air.

He speeds up after that and it’s not long before the plate is empty. Castiel has to make himself look away and appear disinterested when Dean carefully sets the fork on the ground and uses his thumb to spoon up the little that remains on the plate, methodically licking his shaking fingers clean. 

He assumes it’s because Dean isn’t sure when he’s going to be fed next, and the thought makes his eyes sting. 

“Do you want more?”

Dean doesn’t move his eyes from the plate. It’s a long time before he speaks. “Do you want me to eat more, alpha?”

Shit. Dean calling him that does nothing but make his skin crawl. It’s supposed to be a term of endearment between alpha-omega couples, but Dean says it like he’s been _trained_ to. He probably has. “I want you to listen to your body and make that decision for yourself. If you decide that you want more later, you will be able to eat. This isn’t a one-time offer.” 

Dean lets loose a breath, and Castiel counts it as a win that he was able to suss out what the omega’s fear was on his own. “I’ll… I’ll be sick,” he finally croaks; hesitant, even, to say that much in his own defense. 

Castiel hadn’t even considered as much – big surprise. It’s painful to realize that Dean is familiar enough with this scenario to be cautious all on his own. He’d probably only told Castiel because he’s scared of what will happen if he _does_ vomit. 

“Okay. Then there’s no need for you to keep eating.” He waits until Dean nods before going on. “The bathroom is down the hall. There are bottles of soap and shampoo inside the shower that I want you to use to clean yourself. There are also towels for you.” He’s careful to be explicit – on the advice of Balthazar, he should be clear about what is for Dean and what isn’t. 

He can’t think of anything in the house he would deny him, but Dean doesn’t understand his motivations. And he isn’t in a place to, not yet.

Dean nods. He stumbles to his feet, nearly losing his balance, and Castiel physically restrains himself from lunging forward to grab him – he doesn’t want a repeat of what happened out in the yard. Dean finds his bearings and holds his plate and fork and cup against his chest with one hand, looking around for the sink. “Don’t worry about that,” Castiel says quickly. “Just leave them on the table.”

The omega hesitates, but he does what he’s told. Head bowed low, his hands clenched around the blanket that’s still folded around his shoulders, he pauses in front of Castiel for a long moment. Then, he drops back to his knees and _bows_ , folding his too skinny body nearly in half. “Thank you for the food, alpha,” he says, clearly trying to make his voice louder than it’s been. It cracks painfully, but there is true gratitude there – it makes Castiel sick to hear it. Sick that Dean should feel the need to thank him for something as simple as a meal. 

It’s a moment before he can respond, his heart in his throat. “You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel says eventually, voice rough. He makes sure he stays seated. Less of a threat, Bal had said. He can’t give in to the voice that’s telling him to hoist Dean off the floor as quickly as he can. “Please, get up.” 

Dean does, moving slowly, his face turned away but still visibly screwed up into a grimace. Castiel wonders what kinds of injuries are hidden under his clothes. 

“It’s the first door on the right. Take your time, okay?”

Dean nods and retreats. From this angle, Castiel can see how bad he’s limping. The auction house that he had been sent to in the interim didn’t have too bad of a reputation for abuse of their stock, all things considered, so Castiel guesses that he was injured in Hell before the shutdown. Maybe by the bomb, maybe before that. Probably both. 

The plan is to have Dean checked by Dr. Barnes tomorrow – a house call, since there is no space in the center for a normal appointment. He’ll have to warn Dean about that tonight so he’s prepared. Castiel doesn’t know how often, if _ever_ , Dean’s received _real_ medical treatment, so it’s a tossup on how he’ll react. His file had plenty of documented visits from a slave doctor, but Castiel knows better than most what kind of “medicine” they practice. 

He sighs and gathers the dishes, dumping them in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. He’d gone out to buy clothes yesterday, not sure what to expect but knowing Dean would have absolutely nothing to his name, and he goes to retrieve them now. They’re all simple, just sweatpants and henleys and hoodies in dark colors, all made of the softest materials he could find. They’ll be big on the omega, he realizes now, but at least the pants have drawstrings. 

He leaves them in the bag so his scent won’t touch them, yet more advice from the head of omega rehab that he never would have considered himself. They should have been put in the bathroom beforehand, but it’s too late now. Shaking the bag, he ties it closed and holds it for a moment, grounding himself as best he can as stress washes over him like a tidal wave. 

He pushes away the certainty that he is not cut out for this and tries to focus. Thirty seconds of picking through Dean’s file had been enough to convince him to swallow his discomfort and misgivings about being responsible for someone so fragile – he’d given in to Judy’s attempts to sway him far before her steam had run out. The photo of Dean taped into the documentation from the latest auction house had hit him like a kick to the chest, and he tries to keep that photo in his mind’s eye now. 

He can do this. 

He _has_ to do this. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean presses his forehead against the wall of the shower and tries to breathe slowly. 

He’d taken a chance and turned the tap over to warm a few minutes ago, unable to stomach the sensation of being cold again as he’d stood under the icy spray. Even though doing so can get him beat, he can’t make himself regret it as the water pounds down on his shoulders, soaks through him. The chill in his bones that’s been there for days begins to fade away, and when he finally stops shivering, he feels so lightheaded that he wants to drop down to the tile and go to sleep right there.

He won’t cry. He _won’t_. Why should he? He’s alone. He’s inside. He’s not thirsty, and his belly is full for the first time in he’s not even _sure_ how long; he’s showering in warm water and he’s actually using _soap_ and his new owner hasn’t even hit him yet. This is as good as he’s had it in a long fucking time and he’s not going to waste a second by being a pathetic little bitch. 

His legs are well and truly shaking now, hardly holding him up, and he finally relents and slides down the wall to kneel inside the shower. The glass surrounding the stall is clear, unobstructed, and he’d crammed himself in the corner when he’d first gotten in, facing away from it so he wouldn’t feel so exposed – like it made any difference. The steam from the hot water has created a bit of a barrier now, though he knows it’s just an illusion of privacy. 

Unable to bring himself to get down to scrubbing like he’s supposed to, like his new master _told_ him to, he still grits his teeth and holds his tender wrists under the jet and winces at the sting. The water drains away rust colored. He hates how filthy he is. Dirty, _soiled,_ inside and out. 

Castiel Novak has owned him for a grand total of five hours. 

Dean is still trying to wrap his head around _why_. The dude is obviously loaded. He could afford anyone he wanted to buy. Someone well trained, or at least someone _fresh._ But the alpha hadn’t even inspected him, hadn’t asked any questions. 

He’d been led out by the guards with a leash and made to kneel at the alpha’s feet, wrists cuffed behind his back as per usual, as though he could do any real damage with them free. Under normal circumstances, hands would have grabbed him, taken off his clothes, maneuvered his chin – things that have happened to him hundreds of times. He’d been too tired to put up his token fight, for once, drained from his ordeal in Hell and the subsequent sleepless, hungry nights. 

The most he’d been able to do is hope that the alpha would make his rejection quick so he could try and get some sleep back in his little holding cell. After all, it’s not like he’s good for much – though, from the little he’d been able to hear through the sound of his own pounding heart, the handler at the auction house had certainly tried to stress his expertise as a whore. Not to mention his carefully honed proficiency at taking a beating. As if both those things weren’t painfully obvious to anyone who’d bothered to look at his file, or at him. 

But, in the end, hardly a second had passed after the handler had stopped talking before the alpha _agreed_ to purchase, no inspection needed. At the time, even through his terror, Dean had thought him a sucker for being duped by the auction house, by the seller’s claims that he was _trained_ and _eager_. 

Trained, sure. Alastair had more than seen to that. But eager? No. 

But his bravado had vanished pretty quickly. He’d been ordered to his feet, and even though he’d _tried_ , he couldn’t quite get his legs to listen to him. He’d been too dizzy – from hunger and thirst and exhaustion, and from _fear_ of the man that would soon own him. The handler had hauled him up by the front of his collar and his vision had whited out at the agony of pressure on the back of his bruised neck –

And the alpha had _growled._

Possessive, already. The handler had dropped him like a hot pan and he’d huddled right there at the alpha’s feet, too lightheaded and too grateful that the collar was no longer pressed into his nape to do anything else. 

The man had continued to snap at the handlers and he’d been given paperwork faster than Dean had ever seen before. What would normally take hours of processing was done in ten minutes, and in all that time, no one else had touched him. Usually, they would have put him in some kind of holding room to be cleaned and threatened and, typically, roughed up one last time while they processed everything – but apparently no one had been brave enough to get that close to the simmering alpha. Castiel himself had knelt down and unlocked his handcuffs after a barked order for a key and a few tense minutes, but Dean had been too scared to let his hands fall from behind his back and too bewildered to thank the alpha like he probably should have.

Instead, he’d stayed down, curled with his head on the floor and had tried to _breathe_ , just enough awareness to wonder why the fuck someone so obviously powerful wanted _him_ of all slaves. Then he’d heard the price the alpha was paying for him and it made a little more sense.

Dean knows that he flushed red when he’d heard that low number. _Pathetically_ low. He knows exactly why he isn’t valued for much – not anymore – but it had still stung. For every year in the trade, for everything that has been done to him and every consequence he’s brought upon himself, his value has decreased dramatically. 

It’s hard not to remember what they’d paid for him originally. It’s always felt vaguely stupid to be proud of the number, but now it sits on his chest like a heavy weight. Mocking him. Reminding him of all that had been taken from him, of how worthless he is now. He rests his head on his hands, tries to silence the voice in his head that’s screaming all the ways he’s a piece of shit.

There’s a sound behind him. 

He’s on his feet in an instant and screaming at his legs to keep him upright, blood rushing in his ears as he backs against into the corner, but the alpha doesn’t wrench the door open like Dean thought he would. Instead, the soft sound comes again. And again. A rhythmic tapping. 

He’s… knocking?

“Dean? I’ve got some clean clothes here for you. Is it alright if I open the door and set them on the counter?”

Dean’s voice is gone. He hardly understands what the man is saying, he’s so scared. He’d been so _stupid_ to take his clothes off and give his master easy access, stupider to turn the water to warm. The condensation on the glass will give him away in an instant. And the blanket the alpha gave him is on the floor. The _floor_. The realization almost makes him scramble out of the shower and onto his knees right there on the bathroom rug; he _would_ do that if he could get his legs to fucking listen to him. But apparently his sense of self preservation isn’t as strong as his need to freeze and hide. 

He’s a rabbit and his master is the hawk. Hopeless prey that already knows it’s been spotted, food for a bird that’s too keen to be fooled by camouflage and far too close to outrun. He cowers into the weeds and hides anyway – what else is a rabbit supposed to do?

There’s a pause, and the alpha tries again. “Dean?”

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out, and eventually his master cracks open the door and Dean _does_ slide back to his knees right there on the tile, legs weak as gelatin, his hand white on the shower bar above him. He can’t breathe. The hot water that felt so good moments ago now feels like it could boil him alive. 

He can’t see the alpha through the fog on the glass, save for blurry, indistinct shapes, and he prays the same is true on his master’s side of things. 

“Are you alright in there?” 

It takes a long time for the question to sink in, to fall into an order that makes sense. There’s something like _concern_ in the man’s voice, and Dean’s not in the right headspace to determine whether it’s genuine. 

“Yes,” he finally chokes out, not even sure if the man can hear his weak voice over the sound of the water.

The alpha clears his throat. “I brought you some clothes. They’re going to be big on you, I think, but it’s all I have right now. I hope that’s alright. Do you… do you want to keep your old clothes?”

Those clothes aren’t _really_ his. He’s had them for a grand total of a few days, because before then he’d had no reason to wear anything at all. He’d been miserably grateful for them when a guard had thrown them his way, even though the beta had jeered at the shaky way he’d pulled them on. 

He doesn’t want to give up the only thing he has, especially not in exchange for whatever awful uniform his master has undoubtedly chosen for him to dress in. But nothing belongs to him anyway. His own life doesn’t even belong to him. The lesson has been beaten into him too many times for him to ever forget it.

“No,” he croaks, and it’s like tearing off duct tape. 

“Okay.” The relief is audible in the alpha’s voice, and at least that’s _one_ thing Dean has done right. “Do you need anything?”

“No, mas-” 

He catches himself too late, and the water on him is no longer warm because he’s cold down to his bones. 

The alpha had _told_ him not to call him master and he’s already fucked it up. His vision narrows to a pinprick and he cowers lower into the tile and puts his hands over his neck and– 

“Okay,” his master says, and his voice is jarring, gentle and soothing like it had been in the yard when Dean had almost lost his mind and bolted out into the snow. “I’ll be in the living room when you’re done. I think we should talk about a few things before bed.”

His heart is too far up his throat for him to reply, even though he should. Even though he should be throwing himself at the alpha and begging forgiveness, even though he should be kissing his feet for not beating him, even though he shouldn’t be in the shower at _all_ and should be hosed off in the front yard if his master grants him the mercy of being clean – he still doesn’t speak. 

The door clicks shut before he can make himself. 

It would be stupid to waste anymore time in here, so he forces himself to start scrubbing in earnest to remove the grime from his body and ignores how dizzy he is. His master told him to clean himself, and he knows exactly what that means. He does the best he can with soap and water and ignores the way everything stings and aches. 

He doesn’t even try to prep himself. There’s no point. He’s too scared, and he still hurts too much from the last time someone fucked him. The idea that he could make himself slick right now is laughable. 

The towels his master told him to use are gentle and foreign against his skin. He dries off quickly, careful not to wet the floor or the rug, and hangs the soft towel on a hook on the wall and resists the insane urge to keep it.

He opens the bag on the counter with trepidation, his stomach in knots as he imagines what his new clothes will look like. But losing his rags from before doesn’t hurt as much when he slides into what the alpha left him. They’re probably the softest things he’s ever touched. 

It’s a strange uniform for a slave – when he’s had clothes, they’ve always been ugly and shapeless, or demeaning and revealing. These, though, are new, and they look and feel expensive, and they’re just… clothes. Normal. He doesn’t know if he should be relieved just yet, doesn’t know how long he’s gonna get to keep these. 

His master had been right; they _are_ big on him, and he refuses to look in the mirror to see how starved he must look until he’s buried under a layer of fabric. 

The man staring back at him is not one he recognizes. The last time he’d looked at himself had been ages ago, some stolen glance in a bathroom mirror before he’d been too beaten down to give a shit anymore. His cheeks are hollow and sharp, eyes red rimmed and dark underneath. Buzzed off just a day ago, his hair is short and ugly, and there is a dark bruise along one side of his jaw from a blow he doesn’t even remember. 

He looks… tired.

He _is_ tired.

There’s a toothbrush in an unopened package on the counter as well. It’s probably for him but his heart picks up when he uses it, sure on some level that Castiel will burst in the door and punish him for stealing. The minty toothpaste is overwhelming but he forces himself to brush anyway, as if he can clear years worth of filth from his mouth in a matter of seconds. 

There is blood in the sink when he spits, and the familiar coppery tang is enough to make him gag. 

He picks up the abandoned blanket and holds it in front of him, not sure if he’s still allowed to use it. It takes too long for him to open the door to the bathroom. He has to make himself. It’s not as if he’s really safe in here, though it sort of feels that way. 

His master said he wanted to talk before fucking him. So they’ll talk. He figures he should be grateful for that, for some small minutes of rest, but he can’t find it within himself. He just feels increasingly blank, even his fear trickling away as he struggles to stay awake enough to make it down the stairs without falling on his face. 

* * *

Castiel is sitting on one of the long leather sofas, a mug of something steaming in front of him. There’s another cup on the side table. He looks up with a smile. 

It sends a bolt of anxiety through Dean. It’s never good when they smile. He holds the blanket in his hands like a shield, like it can protect him from whatever his master has planned. 

“Please, sit.”

Dean swallows, clenches his hands against his nerves. Drops to his knees in front of the alpha like a good little bitch, exactly like he’s been trained. 

He can’t scent any lust on the man, but that doesn’t mean shit. He can’t smell much of anything over the acrid stench of his own terror – hell, even the achingly familiar scent of coffee is hardly filtering in. He realizes that his master has not said anything and he clenches his fists. He’s already done enough that’s wrong, clearly, and now the alpha is probably sizing up how best to kick the shit out of him and teach him his place, how he wants to remind Dean of how _low_ he is – 

“There’s plenty of room on the couch.”

Dean blinks. 

He’s misheard, obviously. Or misunderstood. But when he looks up, the alpha is staring down at him, gesturing to the long, empty section of the sofa with one hand, his eyebrows drawn together. 

“I know my place, alpha,” he says quickly. He’s not _that_ stupid. It's no surprise that his new master is testing him like this – he probably wants to know if he’s been trained properly. 

He has. The idea would normally make him burn with shame, but he’s too exhausted to feel much of anything. _Tomorrow_ , he’ll put up a fight. _Tomorrow_ , he’ll claw and spit and resist like he should. But _tonight_ , he just wants to get this over with so that he can go the fuck to sleep.

The alpha’s mouth is pressed together in a thin line, and Dean knows he’s done something wrong but for the life of him he can’t figure out what it is. Not that it matters. He could breathe the wrong way and that would be justification for his master to hurt him. Hell, he could do everything exactly _right_ and the alpha could still decide it wasn’t good enough. He learned that lesson a long time ago. 

Maybe his master wants him a different way. He slides his hands behind his back and grips his elbows, ducks his head down. Waits to be told what to do. 

But the only thing his master does is sigh. “I don’t expect you to hold that position, Dean,” he says, voice low, and Dean can only drop his hands back down in front of him after a confused pause, twisting them together in his lap. His heart is pounding and he can _feel_ the heat of the blow that’s about to come. 

It could be that the alpha is waiting for him to admit that he used hot water. Waiting for him to beg for forgiveness. He knows he won’t get it, but he still apologizes in advance, for the little the good it will do. “Sorry, alpha.” His voice is small. Weak. Tired.

His master takes in a breath. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

That’s not true, and they both know it. Dean shakes his head, but he’s too tired to play this game. Too tired to convince the alpha that he _is_ bad and needs to be punished. Alastair loved this little routine, the back and forth. The humiliation of Dean begging for pain, if only because the alternative was always worse. 

But when he looks up at his new master, the alpha doesn’t look amused. He looks… unsure. 

Maybe he’s the dude’s first slave. If that’s the case, the alpha might just want him to take the initiative. It’s been a long time since he’s had a master like this – one that wants him to pretend that this is willing submission, that he actually _likes_ what’s been done to him. 

The last time this happened, he didn’t play along. Thinking back to the shit that followed is enough to make his stomach twist painfully. He wishes he had, now. Maybe then he wouldn’t have ended up in Hell. 

His new master has not punished him yet, but he’s sure it’s coming. He hasn’t followed his training at _all_ – he has flinched back _(wrong),_ he has whined and protested _(wrong)_ , he has let his scent spiral completely out of control _(wrong)._ He’s ignored an order and taken liberties that he shouldn’t have. 

Wrong.

Dean has belonged to this man for less than a day and he’s already dug himself a grave.

He stares at the alpha’s body, languid and powerful on the couch in front of him, abruptly understands what the man must expect from him, and swallows. 

He can’t throw up. 

He can’t throw up, because if he does, it’s just going to add to the multitude of things he’s already done wrong. He’s not even used to having anything _in_ him to throw up, and he knows he should be too grateful for the food to even consider being nauseous. But he feels like he’s going to puke anyway. 

Dean squeezes his eyes closed and tries to keep his scent neutral, tries to control his breathing, tries not to let the tears in his eyes escape. Tries to remind himself that it could be so much worse. 

He could be dead. He could be off to another training center. Shit, he could have been purchased by some other whorehouse – had thought for sure that he would be, had figured that was all he was good for. But instead he’s been bought by a singular alpha, one that has not already forced a cock into his mouth. One that did not drag him to the car by the leash or his neck but instead let him walk. One that did not put him in a crate or the trunk. One that has fed him for free and let him shower, has given him soap and clothes and a toothbrush. Already so much more than Alastair would have done.

Could be worse.

So he shuffles forward and puts his hands on the alpha’s legs, tips his chin to the side so his throat is exposed. His heart is pounding in his ears and his mouth is dry but maybe if he does this his new master will leave him alone long enough for him to sleep. 

He is stiff under Dean’s touch, neither helping him along nor pushing him away, so he swallows and moves toward the man’s belt so he can undo it. His hands are shaking. Mouth dry. He touches his fingertips to the leather. 

The alpha immediately scoots backward. 

Dean freezes, his hands pressed into the seat where his master had just been. 

“I don’t – _Dean_ ,” the alpha says, his voice a little higher than it’s been so far. “I _don’t_ want that.”

Dean can’t help the way his teeth grit together or the clench of his closed eyes or the way his hands claw into the couch, even though any of those things are more than enough to get him beat for his insolence. He should be relieved, but he isn’t. He just feels fucking stupid. Helpless.

He wants to get this over with, because if he doesn’t go to sleep soon he’s going to go fucking crazy. He just wants _rest_. Just wants to be left alone, and he’ll do anything to get that, anything he has to, anything his master wants.

“What _do_ you want, alpha?” He tries to make his voice submissive, coy, but it just sounds exhausted. More than a little pleading. He’s so fucking pathetic. 

The alpha clears his throat and awkwardly moves away from Dean until he’s on the other side of the couch. “Why don’t you sit on the other side of the coffee table.”

It’s probably supposed to sound like a suggestion, but Dean knows it’s an order. He shuffles back until he’s there, his head pounding with exhaustion and confusion. 

The alpha moves toward him and Dean can’t help an instinctual flinch backward, his hands jumping up to cover his face as he braces himself for the pain that’s finally coming. But all that happens is that he sets the other mug in front of Dean on the coffee table. He stares blankly at it, then at the man’s hands. 

“That’s for you.” His master gestures at the mug. The smell of coffee makes him a little dizzy. He can’t remember the last time he had any. He has to close his eyes and breathe through his mouth a few times to keep from passing out right there and then, a wave of nausea and dizziness overtaking him. 

Wincing as the heat burns his fingers a bit, Dean takes it carefully and settles back into position on the ground. He peers down at the dark liquid and wonders what it’s drugged with, and wonders if he’ll be able to make himself drink it despite the pounding in his chest and the tremor in his hands. The alpha doesn't have to drug him to get his compliance - at least not tonight. But he doesn't know that.

His master leans forward and sets his own mug on the table and Dean jumps a little at the noise, splashing hot coffee onto his hand and the – 

The carpet. The _white_ carpet.

There’s coffee on the carpet. 

There’s coffee on the carpet, and he’s dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There's coffee on the carpet, and he's dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer one for y'all! Thank you so much for those of you who have commented. It really makes me feel like the effort is worth while and encourages me to post the next chapters. Happy reading! 
> 
> This one is a bit of a heavier chapter, so there are some possible trigger warnings at the end.

He doesn’t remember all of what happens next, only that someone is babbling apologies and nonsense and then someone is touching him in a way that isn’t, bewilderingly, _hurting_ him, and his hands are warm because someone is holding them in their own and he realizes that he’s crying. He’s _crying_ , hot, awful tears running down his face and neck, and he can’t breathe and – 

_His master_ is the one holding his hands.

“Shh. Shh, Dean, it’s alright. It’s _alright_ , I promise. It was an accident, I’m not angry. It’s _okay_. I am _not_ going to punish you. Breathe with me, Dean, okay? Breathe _with_ me. In and out. Slowly – _God_. Please. Try, Dean, please try for me. _Breathe_.”

The words are all nonsense at first and then some of them aren’t and he tries his best to do what his master asks of him, only it’s hard because his lungs want to suck up all the oxygen in the room and he feels like he could sprint all the way back to Kansas right now and his master’s hands on his feel too much like shackles when they slide up a few inches and push on the bruises under his sleeves that have been there so long he’s forgotten what his wrists look like without them and the alpha’s scent is in his nose his mouth his throat he can’t breathe he’s _choking_ he can't _breathe can’t breathe can’tBREATHE_ – 

He shoves his master off of him and wrenches away, scrambling backward across the carpet until he hits a wall, the blanket tangling around his legs for a terrifying moment before he can break free. And, somehow, the alpha _lets him go_. 

He crowds back against the wall with his knees in front of him and gulps in shallow breaths, waiting to be grabbed, waiting for punishment. But there is only silence. 

Dean has _never_ seen an alpha kneel before, but when he dares to look up and his wild eyes land on him the man is on his knees on the carpet. He’s got to be hallucinating, or maybe dreaming, and he tears his eyes away so he can wake himself the fuck _up_. His master is still breathing loudly and slowly and he tries to match the movements of his chest to the sound of it because if he doesn’t he’s going to pass out, and nothing good ever happens when he passes out. 

A few more breaths in and he can finally see clearly; a few more out, and his brain catches up with him. 

_God_ he’s so fucking stupid. The carpet is soft on his forehead when he bows, and it brushes his lips when he starts begging. “I’m s-sorry, master – _f-fuck –_ I mean, sir _,_ I – I mean – C-Cas– Mr. Nov– _alpha, God,_ alpha _please,_ I’ll clean it I _swear,_ please don’t punish me, _please,_ please don’t put me outs-side-”

His breath chokes in his throat and he bites his lip until it bleeds to make himself fucking _stop_ speaking. He’s cowering on the ground like a dog, because that’s what he is. Actually, no, scratch that – dogs have laws that protect them from getting hit or starved or left out in the cold with no protection. He suddenly wants to laugh and the feeling is hysterical and sharp in his chest. He’s less than a goddamn _dog_. He’s certainly stupider than one. A useless, _broken_ omega whore. 

But at least he’s still smart enough to know that he’s starting to dissociate, the familiar, detached feeling slowly settling over him like a layer of icy snow. 

Dean has never done this without getting hurt first _._ Usually the feeling will take him just before the pain is so much that he thinks he might die, or _beg_ to die just to escape it – but he’s not complaining. Right now, it allows his heart to slow down and his breathing to even out so that the room stops spinning, allows him to recognize the sensation of tacky tears drying on his cheeks in a detached, clinical way.

He’s going to be punished. He knows this. He’ll survive, or he won’t, but it’s not up to him and there’s nothing he can do about it. So he stays where he is, forehead pressed into the stupidly white carpet, and waits. 

And he keeps waiting. 

After a long moment, the silence is broken by shuffling on the floor, and his master’s soft footsteps as they approach him. He feels his shoulders draw together automatically, bracing for a blow that must be coming. 

Instead, his master kneels in front of him _again_ , and puts his hands out and low where Dean can see them when he finally dares to look up. And he doesn’t move again after that. Dean blinks up at him, distantly terrified of the coming pain and bewildered that it has not yet come. 

His master’s lips are chapped. He finds himself staring at them, still curiously far away from himself and his body, and he thinks it’s an odd thing to notice. But they are, and he’s got a sort of unkempt five o’clock shadow to match. His hair is rumpled, and there are dark circles under his eyes that Dean doesn’t understand – what in the hell would a rich alpha male like him have to worry about? But when Dean finally takes in his whole face and puts together his expression in a way that makes sense, he thinks that the alpha looks weirdly… sad. 

“You called me Cas.”

Dean closes his eyes, another arc of fear ripping through him, just strong enough to touch him through the distance. “I’m sorry.”

“You… it’s okay,” he says, and his voice rumbles like gravel. He hesitates for just a moment before he adds, “you may call me whatever you’d like.”

Dean doesn’t understand that and he’s so tired that it’s not possible to try. His master’s voice still isn’t angry when he speaks. “Can you sit up?”

He does what he’s told, because it would be suicide not to, but he can’t make himself look up again. “Can I be frank with you, Dean?”

Dean wants to laugh, he really does. As if he has control over how anyone speaks to him, as if he has control over _anything._ Instead of his hysteria coming out as a giggle, however, it comes in the form of a burning pressure at the back of his eyes, more shameful tears pushing out that he can’t control. He hardly feels them. He can’t even make himself nod. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

That’s obvious. Because if he _did_ , Dean would already be in a puddle of his own blood and drool on the ground. This time, he _does_ laugh, strained and high until he claps his hands over his mouth and takes in a shuddering breath, more wetness pressing out of his eyes. He’s so far gone that the disrespect doesn’t even scare him. Or maybe it does, but the fear doesn’t touch him, doesn’t make contact because he’s so out of it. 

He really must be this guy’s first bitch. Is he going to have to _explain_ to the alpha how to treat him?

But his master doesn’t slap him for his insolence. He doesn’t even look offended. Instead, he scrubs at his face with his hand and sighs. “I’m not going to punish you for spilling the coffee, Dean.”

“You… what?”

Dean could hit himself for speaking. Instead, he curls his fingertips into his palms until he’s nearly breaking skin when the alpha cocks his head to the side, confused. He tries to explain himself in a way that won’t get him punished anymore than he already will be. 

Because, honestly, he knows this game. Alastair had _loved_ this routine, loved to dangle precious forgiveness over his head that he would never be good enough to receive. If he doesn’t admit everything he did wrong now, it’s only gonna be worse for him in the future – or, at least, that’s how it’s always been. “I… I messed up, though. So… I deserve it.”

His master’s voice is impossibly soft when he replies. “No. You don’t.”

It’s not something that Dean understands, that sentiment, so he doesn’t allow himself to feel the relief that’s trying to release the strangle-hold that fear has on his lungs and chest. His master is testing him. Trying to trick him. “What about the water?”

The alpha blinks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Water?”

“The… the hot water. I used hot water. In the shower,” he says, hating himself. Does he _like_ pain? Does he want to be punished? He must, because he digs his grave a little further, his words tumbling out of his mouth like bricks onto the ground, heavy and horrible and far too loud. “And – and I pushed you.”

The alpha stares at him. “You did. I was touching you without your permission, though. And you weren’t exactly in your right mind.”

It’s his turn to blink. Without his permission? Slaves don’t give _permission_. Hehasn’t given anyone permission to do _anything_ to him since he signed his fucking life away, and that had stopped exactly no one. 

The man shakes his head. “I’m not going to punish you for those things either.”

Dean just can’t fucking help himself. _“Why?”_

His new master frowns, still sitting on his feet on the ground like he’s not above Dean in every possible way. “Well, with the shower – I expected you to use hot water. It never occurred to me that you’d think you were breaking a rule by doing that. How did you normally bathe?”

Dean’s too scared to lie and too exhausted to soften his words, and he still feels too far away from himself. He doesn’t understand anything that’s happening right now – he’s never had a conversation like _this_ with his masters, especially not before punishment. Nothing so tame. Nothing that wasn’t a performance, or begging, or _yes master, no master._ “I… If I was too… If I was too dirty they would just take me outside and… spray me down.”

The man looks… sick. Which doesn’t make sense, ‘cause in Dean’s experience, he’s lucky he got washed at all, that he _ever_ got a moment free from some sick alpha’s stench. “It’s so cold,” he says softly, and if Dean didn’t know any better he’d say the man’s tone was sympathetic. 

But that can’t really mean anything, not coming from an alpha, so Dean says nothing. His master takes a deep, steadying breath. “As for you pushing me – like I said, it’s understandable under the circumstances. You didn’t hurt me, but you were scared I was going to hurt you.”

“You _did-”_ Dean says without meaning to, and like a whipcrack he’s back in his body again, the soothing distance from before yanked from him like his blanket by his master in Hell. He wraps his arms around himself and finds that he’s shaking. 

His master hurting him is not something he should find _novel._ It’sthe norm. It’s been the norm for so long that he doesn’t understand why he’s bothered to mention it, to contradict the man that literally owns him and can do anything he wants to a slave that’s disrespectful. And suddenly his fear is choking him again, and his heart is racing and he just wants whatever this is to be done, wants his master to get it _over with_ already. 

“I hurt you?” the man asks, and he sounds genuinely distressed by the idea, which makes no fucking sense at all. “When? How?”

He doesn’t understand the question, can’t even begin to formulate an answer. “Can you show me? I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

His hands are shaking when he shoves back his sleeves, nearly getting them up to his elbows in his hurry to do something his master wants, to prove to him that he can obey so the alpha doesn’t feel the need to beat that obedience into him. It’s one of the few orders the man’s given him since he arrived here, and he’s not trying to fuck up again.

The bruises that circle his wrists are dark and bloody in places, freshly so because he’d scrubbed at them in the shower. The alpha’s sharp intake of breath makes him tense, and, worse, when the alpha reaches forward like he wants to touch them again Dean can’t help but flinch and draw his hands back to himself. The sleeves fall back over his arms limply and he could cry, because he _knows better._ Knows that he can’t say no. 

But when his master talks, it isn’t to threaten or scare him into obedience. Instead, his words are so strange and impossible that Dean would think he was dreaming, if he wasn’t having so much trouble falling asleep in the first place. 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I never would have – you were hurting yourself. I only grabbed your hands because you were hurting yourself.”

He doesn’t remember, but it would explain the raw feeling under his nails and the carpet burns on his palms. “Sorry,” he whispers again, no idea what to say other than that. No idea what his master wants from him, or why he’s apologizing for hurting Dean when it’s his every right to do so. 

Maybe the alpha wanted someone who isn’t broken yet. Dean thinks, distantly, that he should have looked him over a little more carefully if that was his goal.

His master starts to say something, then doesn’t, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m not going to punish you, Dean.”

The thought of believing that doesn’t even tickle at the edge of his mind, and the alpha can obviously tell. His eyes are tired. “It’s okay that you don’t trust me right now. I hope you will, with time. I’m going to do my best to earn it.”

He shuffles to his feet and Dean flinches back again despite himself, curling down over his stomach to protect it like he’s done a million times in the past. But his master doesn’t kick him, doesn’t reach down and yank on his collar to put him exactly where he wants. He doesn’t even _force_ Dean to calm down, even though he could with nothing but a little pressure on the nape of his neck. Instead, he takes a step back to the couch and sits down on it, far enough away that Dean can finally breathe again without _alpha_ in the back of his throat. 

“You’re very tired,” the alpha says, and Jesus if that isn’t the understatement of the century. If he wasn’t so fucking scared he would be asleep right _now_. He’s gotten essentially zero rest the last few days, waiting to see what would happen to him, tossing and turning with his empty stomach and praying to anyone who would listen that he was done with Hell for good. That Alastair had gone up in flames with the rest.

His new master’s low, rumbling voice is so different from the echoed hisses and jeering of his old that it startles him right back into the present. “I’m going to keep this brief. The way that your previous masters have treated you has no bearing in his house. I am not those people. It is true that I technically own you, but hurting you is not my intention. I’m…” the alpha makes a frustrated noise, rubbing his hand on his chin. He takes in a breath. “I wish I could explain more than this. But I don’t think you’ll believe me, and I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

His eyes are searching when he looks down at Dean. “But I _don’t_ want to hurt you. Do you understand?”

Eyes wide, he nods. What else is there to do? Every master he’s had has been different, but in the end, they’d _all_ hurt him. Some worse than others, sure, but they’d all had their fun. Castiel Novak will be no different. Why buy a slave, otherwise? What purpose can he serve, other than to be the whipping boy for someone else’s rage or lust or sadistic glee?

But maybe… _maybe_ this is his way of making Dean behave. Telling him he doesn’t want to hurt him – just that he will if he needs to. 

The very thought makes Dean want to curl up and sob with desperate relief. Because, at least, if _that_ ’s the case, he’ll get a _chance_ not to fuck it up, a chance not to be in pain. He might even be able to avoid the worst of it all together if he’s good, if he tries his damnedest to do what he’s supposed to. 

His last master had never given him that – it was his literally fucking _purpose_ to be hurt by anyone who would pay for it. He was just punished even more harshly if he didn’t lay there and let it happen like he deserved it. He’d been the stand-in for some other poor son of a bitch, a punching bag that alphas could take out their frustration on and then fuck for good measure. 

He’d been strong, before Hell. Never taken anything lying down. He’d paid dearly for it over and over and _over_ again, but still, he’d fought back. And even _in_ Hell, even after Alastair broke him, even after he’d stopped running, there had been precious moments where he’d bucked against whatever was happening to him, times where his head had broken the surface of the water and he’d remembered who he was. 

Right now, Dean doesn’t remember that version of himself. The thought that he could be strong feels like a joke, like a lie that he’s made himself believe to keep some modicum of self respect. The only thing that’s left alive inside of him is a pathetic omega bitch that will take any chance it has at living without pain, and he knows it, and he doesn’t fucking care. 

They’ve tried to break his spirit for years. Turns out the only thing they’d never done – show _mercy_ – is all it takes for him to bend over completely willingly.

“They have cut you down in ways I can’t even begin to understand,” his master says softly, and Dean swallows, face flushing in shame at how right he is, “and I’m so sorry for that. But the things that got you punished in their households will _never_ get you punished here. If you ever need clarification on what you can and can’t do, just ask me. You will never be punished for asking me questions.”

Dean can’t help himself. “Never?” He’s testing his luck, he knows, but he might as well figure out his boundaries as much as he can. He’s already prepared to get the shit kicked out of him – might as well make this a fact finding journey in the meantime, figure out what the rules are so he can avoid breaking them in the future. He may have fucked up already – his master hasn’t responded to his question. He chances a look up. 

But instead of fury, a thoughtful frown is on his master’s face. “Never. It would be wildly unfair for me to assume that you understand my expectations here, especially because they’re likely very different from anything you’ve experienced. How else are you going to learn, besides asking?”

Dean shudders, drops his eyes. Trial and error, usually. _Painful_ errors.

The alpha doesn’t say anything, but he does look a little sad. Dean doesn’t know what to make of that. 

“Let me show you to the bedroom,” his master finally says, and waits for Dean to lurch to his feet before heading down the long hallway and up the dark wooden stairs. It hurts everywhere to climb them, but Dean does it anyway. His body always hurts, that’s nothing new. But pain has never been an excuse to ignore orders. His master knows it, too – he doesn’t look back to check and see if Dean’s following, clearly confident that he’s well trained enough to know not to run. 

He’s right. 

Dean knows what he’s been purchased for. Maybe if he doesn’t resist, his master will be gentle. He doesn’t even spare a moment to be disgusted with himself, with how the bar has dropped to the point where he’s just hoping that the alpha fucking him won’t _make_ it hurt more than it already has to, just by the nature of the act. 

Things could always be worse. The alpha could have fucked him right there in the parking lot, and no one would have blinked an eye. Hell, he could have demanded a taste-test _inside_ the auction house, and then not bought him all. Instead, he’s waited until Dean is at least coherent, has fed him and cleaned him beforehand. And he’s doing it in a bed, probably, better than the cold hard ground under bruised and bleeding knees, or a cold metal trap around his neck and wrists and waist to hold him down. 

Could be worse, could be worse. He repeats it like a prayer.

The room they stop in front of has the door closed; his brain provides him a million red and black stills of what’s inside, each more terrifying than the last. But when Castiel opens it, he can see that it’s a perfectly normal bedroom. His master’s, he assumes. The walls are a soft gray and the bed has a patterned green quilt on top, tucked under loads of pillows, and there’s a large window off to the side that’s got the curtains thrown open so that he can see the snow falling in the yard. It’s a chilling reminder of where he’d been just days ago, and where he could be again if he doesn’t do what he’s supposed to.

Could be worse. Can always _get_ worse. He steps forward.

He takes a deep breath and tries to push down the fear that has begun to make his legs shake, hoping against all his expectations that the alpha will be kind enough to prep him, at least minimally. He shouldn’t hold his breath, because he knows that it’s _his_ job as the omega to get slick, even if he’s scared out of his mind. But, maybe– 

“The bed, and everything else in the room, for that matter, belong to you.” 

Dean freezes, eyes wide as he looks up into his master’s tired face. 

Wait. 

_What?_

“There’s a lock on the door, which I want you to use if you feel so inclined,” his master rushes to say, and Dean doesn’t even have the chance to be surprised before the man steps back and away from him. “Please try and get some sleep, Dean. I’ll do my best to clarify things for you tomorrow, but I think we’ve both had more than enough tonight.”

And with that, he retreats, footsteps loud as he descends the stairs. 

* * *

Dean stands in front of the door for a while, shell-shocked and dizzy, bewildered to find himself alone and untouched and unhurt. Then he snaps back into himself and stumbles forward to shut the door with a loud click. He isn’t brave enough to lock it. 

Not sure why he’s scared, exactly – just knowing that he is – he turns around and presses his back to the dark wood. It’s solid behind him, probably the only thing keeping him upright as his head spins and he tries to make sense of what just happened. 

Why the fuck would you buy a sex slave if you’re going to give them _their own room,_ a whole goddamn _floor_ away from yours?

But it really is just a normal room. Nothing on the walls. No chest in the corner, full of things that will hurt him in a million different ways. No places on the bed or floor or walls or ceiling for his cuffs or collar to be chained the instant he dares to thrash or protest, most of the time before even that. 

He thinks he might fall on the floor and start bawling when he realizes it, the empty patches of painted drywall and wood more wondrous than anything he’s seen in years. He sways, stumbles forward. Has to put his hands on the bed to catch himself, lightheaded, blood rushing in his ears, something sharper and more painful than relief slicing him to ribbons.

The bed is soft. So soft and clean and it doesn’t smell like sex or blood or tears or misery, and it _can’t_ be for him. Not for something like him. So he looks around for something on the floor, some space that _he’s_ supposed to be in, but there’s nothing. Just a padded armchair and a side table and a dresser, all as expensive looking and clean as the rest of the house.

His master’s words echo in his mind. Had he really said that the bed was for him? He can’t trust his brain, hasn’t been able to for a while, so he dismisses the thought. But there really isn’t anything else in the room that looks like it could be a place for him. He has no idea what to do, no idea how to handle the idea that he’s been given a room instead of a chain at the foot of a bed, a _mattress_ instead of a meager blanket on the floor. 

He bites his lip.

The quilt he pulls from the bed is soft and smells fresh, like it’s just been washed. It doesn’t smell like _alpha_ , even though it belongs to one, and Dean wonders why even though he’s relieved at the extra confirmation that the alpha doesn’t spend any time here. 

Trembling, glancing at the door every so often as if it’s going to bang open at any moment, he drops a pillow to the ground between the bed and the wall, putting the mattress between himself and the door for all the good it will do him if his master changes his mind and wants to use him after all. Then, he curls down on the plush carpet with the quilt over him, his hands circling around his knees automatically as he goes. He hopes the alpha won’t be angry that he’s putting such nice bedding on the floor.

And he waits.

The house is… quiet. For the first time in years, he’s able to listen to nothing at all. There is no crude laughter, no yelling, no crying, no heavy footsteps in the hall on creaking floorboards and ripped linoleum. The room is so well insulated that he can’t even make out the wind that he knows is blowing the dry snow into little whirls and twists outside in the yard. 

The yard that he is not in. The snow that his new master hasn’t even _threatened_ him with yet.

He breathes. And breathes.

And the door never opens.

His master doesn’t _want_ to hurt him. 

He can only enjoy that novel and unbelievable thought for a split second before anxiety overruns him and his heart speeds up, chest tightening until it hurts. He digs his fingers into his sides and presses on old bruises to keep himself from freaking out again, and he’s almost successful – except there’s one little thought that keeps slamming into him, shattering any chance he might have at staying calm. 

He is going to fuck this up. 

He’s going to fuck it _up._ It’s been so long since he’s actually _tried_ to act like a good little bitch that he doesn’t even think he knows how. He’d conditioned himself early on to disobey, to resist any time he had the energy and willpower to do so, to never become a willing participant in the things that were done to him. He’d had mixed levels of success, less and less over the years, but still. He’d _tried_. 

Now that he finally wants to do the opposite, he doesn’t know if he remembers how. 

The pure _want_ inside of him is nauseating in its intensity. He’s just so fucking tired of being in pain, of being scared all the time, always waiting while holding his breath. He’ll do anything he can to stay in his master’s good graces, even if it’s a front, even if this new master ends up being cruel. _Anything_ is better than how it was before, than where he was before. 

He knows he’s pathetic, scrambling around for memories on how to be a proper bitch. Castiel has already broken him more than any other master, and Dean doesn’t even _care_. He hates himself for it, but he’s too grateful for being treated like anything close to a human to want to sabotage this for the sake of the dregs of his pride.

So he has no choice – he _has_ to convince his master that he’s worth it, that he can be good enough not to be punished, good enough to be treated like something that might be human. Only he’s not sure how to overcome the obvious weight of his worth _less_ ness. 

Maybe he’ll get lucky and the alpha will have mercy and just send him off to be re-trained when he realizes that Dean is too far gone to act the way he’s supposed to. 

The thought makes bile rise, but he clasps his hands over his mouth and swallows, refusing to waste the first good food he’s had in far too long by puking it up. He’s been to the training centers more times than he can remember, returned there after every escape attempt and every time a master returned him when he became more trouble than he was worth. The handlers had always known he’d been a repeat customer, had seen it in his file, and each time he’d gone back they’d been more than eager to remind him of his place. He knows, too, that the duration of his stays there had dwindled to the point where there’d been no real reason to go at all – he’d gone from being able to hold out for a month to barely lasting a few days before caving. Before begging and presenting and acting like the bitch _everyone_ knew he was. 

But if he has to go through that to convince this alpha he knows how to act right, he will. He _can_ . He’s handled that before, and compared to what Alastair had done to him, the training center looks like a fucking vacation. Hell, he’ll _volunteer_ to go if it means his master will like him more afterward; if it means he will keep giving him food and warm water and blankets for no reason, even when he’s done nothing to earn those priceless blessings.

Distantly, he recognizes how fucking sad that is. But he doesn’t care. Doesn’t have the energy to care. Not anymore.

After way too long, he forces his eyes closed. His master has only given him one real order so far, and that’s to sleep. He curls his hands over the back of his neck – the position he’s adopted every night for years, though it’s a little strange without the chain between his fingers – and tries his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape/non-con elements - Dean assumes that Castiel is going to sexually assault him (he doesn't, obviously).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a filler chapter, but I wanted to get some of Castiel's perspective. Poor guy is a little overwhelmed... :(
> 
> Also - thank you SO MUCH to those of you who are posting reviews! It really keeps me going. I can't tell you how much it means to writers when we get to read a reader's feedback.

As far as Castiel can tell, Dean sleeps through the night. He’s quiet, at least, and the alpha chooses to take that as a good sign. 

_He_ hasn’t slept a wink. 

The coffee machine gurgles at him accusingly. Every time he’d closed his eyes last night, he’d seen Dean curled over a tiny spot of brown on the carpet, scraping his hands raw trying to claw it up. 

That Dean was that terrified of him even _after_ Castiel had tried to reassure him tells him that the kid’s reaction is his fault. He’s doing an awful job at making the omega feel safe and secure. 

Predictably. 

He needs help. 

Balthazar answers the phone grumpily. “So help me _God,_ Castiel, this better be bloody important, because I’ve only had about,” there’s a pause as he checks the time, _“three_ hours of sleep because of that last round of intake–”

“I apologize for waking you,” he interrupts quickly, before his friend can really get going. “But I would appreciate some guidance.”

Bal sighs dramatically. He can hear the shuffle of covers being thrown back and grimaces guiltily – he’s sure that Bal was asleep in his office on the couch after a long night of paperwork and putting out fires, pulling extra hours to make up for the unusually high number of new residents they’ve taken in. These days, it seems like his head of rehab spends more time at the campus than he does at home. “Tell me what happened.”

Biting his lip, he braces his hand on the counter and leans forward, trying to figure out how to explain the events of last night in a way that doesn’t make him seem totally incompetent. He can’t think of one, so he just goes with the truth, clumsily spilling out the incident like a child with an overfull bucket.

Balthazar curses quietly once he’s done. “Did I not tell you to be careful? To be sure you don’t overwhelm the kid?”

“Giving him coffee is overwhelming?” Castiel asks, hysteria already creeping into his tone. “I was just… trying to make him feel _welcome.”_

“He’s not _going to feel welcome, Castiel!”_ Balthazar curses again, snapping his words into the phone. “Far as he knows, you purchased him as a goddamn sex slave. Would _you_ feel welcome?”

“Well… no,” he concedes reluctantly. “But I thought that if I…” 

“If you what? Pretended like he was a bloody houseguest, he’d start to act like one?”

It sounds incredibly stupid when put plainly like that, and Castiel swallows. Some part of him, he realizes, had hoped that Dean would immediately understand that his circumstances had changed and would feel nothing but relief. Had thought, foolishly, that Dean would somehow recognize that Castiel didn’t intend to harm him. 

As though he’s given Dean any real reason to trust him thus far. He really should have known better.

“It’s not that simple,” Balthazar confirms, irritated, and Castiel’s heart sinks further. “The kid hasn’t had a damn thing to himself since he signed himself over. He’s likely not gotten a free meal even _once._ So you trying to give him some frivolous thing like that did nothing but ring his alarm bells.”

“I still don’t understand,” he says, his voice edging into pleading. “Shouldn’t kind gestures be welcome?”

Balthazar huffs, but his voice softens minutely. “I doubt he saw it like that. I guarantee you he thought you were trying to play him.” He pauses, tone darkening into something bitter. “Or drug him.”

Castiel pales. “I would _never–”_

“I _know that,_ Cassie,” Balthazar snaps, irritation returning to his sleep-rough voice. “But he has no idea who you are, and no idea what to expect from you. You keep doing shit like that and you’re going to snap his brain in half. He needs _structure,_ some kind of dynamic that he recognizes.”

Bile churns in his gut, the coffee he’d just downed threatening to come right back up. “I’m not a slave-owner, Bal. I… I don’t know if I have that in me. He smelled so damn scared – I…” 

“He is scared,” Balthazar replies bluntly. “He has every reason to be. You own him. You’re an alpha.” 

It’s the truth, but it still stings, the reminder of his designation and everything it symbolizes to someone like Dean. He takes a breath. “This is _exactly_ why I didn’t want to do this,” he says quietly. 

Balthazar pauses for a long moment, and Castiel tries not to hold his breath as he waits. Finally, his friend lets out a long sigh, and when he speaks again, his tone is quite a bit less hostile. “You’re not going to hurt the kid, Cassie. I know that, you know that. He’ll figure it out. But you have to give him time.”

“But how do I make it clear to him that I don’t expect…” 

“For him to act like you own him?” Balthazar snorts. “You can’t. Not right now. It would be nice if you could, but a slave like Dean is not going to be able to function without boundaries – at least not at first. You have to take it slow.”

He closes his eyes, the after-image of quivering omega in front of him on the ground. The picture hasn’t left his mind for hours. “I am not cut out for this.”

“That’s too bad,” Balthazar says bluntly, but not unkindly, “because he’s your responsibility now. I know this is outside of your tidy little comfort zone, boss, but there’s no one else that can help this kid right now. Are you really going to give up this quickly?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Right. So buck up, mate.” He can hear the covers shuffling again, and Balthazar yawns, likely planning on going right back to sleep after he hangs up. “Go slow, stay calm, and be as blunt and obvious as possible about your expectations. Don’t let the kid get into his own head about stuff – if you can get him to talk to you, this will go quite a bit faster.”

He nods slowly, but Bal isn’t done. “And let him process at his own pace,” he adds sleepily. “Don’t try and force him to understand, ‘cause he’ll just agree with you blindly if he thinks that’s what you want. Answer any questions he has with full transparency but don’t tell him more than he needs to know, or he’s going to get overwhelmed and shut down.”

His head is spinning. Be honest, but not too honest. Be blunt, but not too blunt. He struggles with communication on the best of days and with the most stable of people, and now he’s being tasked with protecting the fragile mental health of a person who fully expects to be hurt in the cruelest of ways. 

Before he can ask for clarification, though, the sound of Balthazar snoring saws through the line. He bites his lip and hangs up, stuffing his phone in his pocket. 

He rubs at his forehead, stress headache pounding in earnest now. This is, without exaggeration, his worst possible thing that could be asked of him, of his bumbling people skills and woefully underdeveloped sense of empathy. His heart aches for Dean and he knows what he believes in, but he’s positive he is not the person to help him. He isn’t good enough, not like the people he’d hired for this exact purpose. 

That surety doesn’t do anything but add to the anxiety he _already_ feels. It’s taken him most of the morning to nail the source of his unease down, but he thinks he’s figured it out: 

As far as he can tell, being around an omega in distress is triggering base instincts that he’s tried long and hard to ignore. 

Restless and frustrated, keyed up for a fight that isn’t coming, Castiel feels tense even hours after Dean has left the room. He’s never been aggressive, never really been _dominant,_ at least not that he’s noticed. But from the savage desire to rip the handlers at the auction house in _half,_ to wanting more than anything to gather Dean into his arms last night and tell him that he was safe… These are compulsions that he’s never had before. The strength of those instinctual desires inside of him frighten him. He doesn’t want to make a mistake that will hurt the omega in his care, and he’s come close too many times already. Has already scared Dean by not catching his desire to touch in time.

Castiel sighs. He’s not hungry, but Dean needs to eat. So he mixes some pancake batter absently, heats a pan to the right temperature, and starts to cook. It’s methodical and calming. He isn’t a chef by any stretch of the definition, but he can follow precise directions better than anyone he knows. He wishes that rehabilitation came with a guide as clear cut as the one on the back of the box of batter. 

He’s so absorbed in his self-appointed task that he doesn’t notice Dean’s arrival in the kitchen until his scent registers.

Back on the tile in the same clothes he went to sleep in, Dean’s head is down, his hands behind him once again. The position doesn’t look at all comfortable. Castiel has no idea how long he’s been waiting there.

“Oh – good morning,” Castiel says belatedly, spatula in one hand. He probably looks like an idiot. 

Dean glances up at him quickly, avoiding eye contact. “Good morning, alpha.”

Something in him still swoops at the way Dean has chosen to address him, though it’s not as bad as _master._ It’s not ideal, certainly, but he’ll count it as an improvement, especially since the fear-scent Dean’s carried with him since he’d arrived has faded to something closer to _uneasy_ than _terrified terrified terrified_. 

Taking a steadying breath, he tastes a little of Dean’s natural scent for the first time in the back of his throat. It’s omega sweet, of course, along with notes of something else that he’s too far away to identify. 

“You really don’t need to hold your arms like that,” he finally says, stifling the urge to tell Dean he doesn’t need to be on the floor at all. Boundaries, boundaries. Balthazar’s warnings buzz in his ears. 

Dean stares at him for a half second like he doesn’t understand, his expression unsettlingly blank. But the emotion that snaps in to fill the void is not relief, as Castiel had half expected – instead, it is raw fear, and he drops his hands like he’s afraid Castiel will beat him if he doesn’t. He probably _is_ afraid of that.

Swallowing, he tries to move on and ignore the urge to soothe, aware that it might just make things worse if he brings attention to Dean’s perceived misstep. “Did you sleep alright?”

Dean’s brow furrows, the fear slowly bleeding out of his expression when Castiel doesn’t address his apparent blunder. The dark circles under his eyes tell a different story – it seems that neither of them slept very well last night – but he mumbles, “Yes, alpha,” some of the tension dropping away from his shoulders when Castiel nods. 

“Good.” He bites his lip, sort of at a loss for safe conversation topics. “Do you like pancakes?”

The omega’s confusion deepens. “I… uh,” he stutters, clearly not sure what answer Castiel expects. “I don’t know, alpha.” 

Castiel swallows at that. It’d been a stupid question, but he’s never been good at small talk. “I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t, so we’re probably safe.”

Dean doesn’t smile at his weak attempt at humor, but his shoulders do relax a little more. Castiel counts that as a victory. 

There’s a few more seconds of silence, and then Dean quietly says, “Alpha?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Can I… Am I allowed to use the bathroom?”

His throat tightens at the meekness in the omega’s voice. “Yes, of course you are. You don’t ever have to ask me permission for that – use it as often as you like. That goes for the shower as well. The upstairs bathroom belongs to you, though you’re welcome to use the downstairs one if you wish.” 

It never would have occurred to him that Dean would think he needed permission for _that,_ and it strikes him anew how horribly the man in front of him has been abused – and how out of his depth he is. “Do what you like, and then you can come back down to eat. If you want.”

The omega thanks him, then scrambles up off the floor and hurries away fast enough that Castiel realizes he’d probably only come downstairs for this reason. When he comes back, he slides down to the tile without preamble in a movement that shouldn’t be graceful, but is. Something borne from practice. It makes his heart hurt. 

“Do you want some water?”

Dean looks up at him out of the corner of his eye, nodding uneasily when Castiel doesn’t add anything else. He ends up putting the cup down on the tile within his reach rather than handing it to him. A thought occurs to him – has Dean only been drinking water when Castiel has given it to him? The omega never asked for a glass, and Castiel highly doubts that he came down in the night to get one. The image of him cupping water in his hands to drink out of the sink or shower makes his stomach twist. He’s _awful_ at this. 

“Why don’t you just keep that glass?” he offers, once Dean takes a tentative sip. “That way you can fill it up instead of just drinking out of the sink or something whenever you get–” 

Dean drops the cup from his mouth abruptly, staring at Castiel with wide eyes. “I didn’t,” he blurts, and his voice shakes. “I didn’t drink anything, alpha. I swear.”

Castiel takes in a slow, careful breath, and lets it out just as slowly. “It is okay if you did, Dean.”

“I _didn’t,”_ he insists, pleading. “I wouldn’t, I – I know better, I promise –” 

“Consider this,” he interrupts, before Dean’s fear can snowball into terror, “my blanket permission for you to get water _whenever_ you are thirsty. Please keep that cup with you so you can fill it when you need to.”

Dean just stares at him, his mouth partially open. The glass is loose in his grip. “I…” he trails off, looking down at the cup. “Thank you, alpha,” he whispers. 

His throat is a little too tight to reply, so he turns back to the pancakes and lets Dean recover. 

The omega stares at him with naked confusion as he sets a plate of little pancakes in front of him, butter and syrup drenched – he’s certainly underweight enough to need the calories – and sits at the table next to him. He hates putting himself above Dean, but Bal had warned him not to make him sit at the table too soon, going on about that damn _dynamic._ He’s not sure how Dean will react to him trying to sit next to him on the ground after what happened last night, so he doesn’t do that either. 

Again, Dean waits for permission to eat, but afterwards the clink of forks against plates is the only sound in the kitchen. There’s an air of _waiting_ in the air, both men in the room tense and unsure. Dean more so than him, obviously, but even Castiel feels off-kilter. He grips his fork in his hand like a weapon and tries to parse out what he’s supposed to say to convince Dean he will be safe here. 

The file that Jody had given him on the omega had been… horrific. Easily fifty pages long, front and back. Well documented misery. What had concerned Jody more than anything, though, was his discipline record. Dean had attempted to escape _multiple_ times from various owners over the years, and had been returned nearly as often. There were countless sessions of retraining in response – easily a dozen from the time he’d entered the trade until almost five years ago. 

That’s when he’d been purchased by Hell. 

The place had a sinister reputation amongst his staff, even for a slave brothel. It was, simply put, a playground for sadists. Infamous for drug-induced heats and broken, bleeding bodies, and for a ruthless owner that went through cheap slaves like matches, Hell was an omega slave’s worst nightmare. 

Dean had been there for half a _decade_.

Normally, Castiel wouldn’t know anything about Dean’s former masters – purchasers were never listed on the slave’s transfer paperwork, for confidentiality reasons. But the bombing that had destroyed the brothel had been on prime time news, and an inside source at the auction house had given Jody the scoop about where Dean had been repo-ed from. The omega’s file had landed on his desk half an hour later. 

The tip had made Castiel terrified to look through the most recent entries into his file, but the documentation had, for the most part, dropped off. After his last purchase, the only notes on Dean were brief, clinical records from slave doctors, haphazardly paperclipped and folded in. Even the most superficial injuries listed had made his stomach turn, so he’d skimmed, and looked for patterns. And he’d found one. 

No more escape attempts. No more recaptures. No more retraining. Something truly _awful_ had been done to this man behind those doors, something bad enough to break his fighting spirit.

Dean jumps when he breaks the silence, and Castiel tries and fails not to feel guilty about that. Balthazar had said to be clear about his expectations, so he thinks he should warn Dean of Pamela’s impending visit like he failed to do last night.

“In a few hours, a doctor will be here to look over your injuries. She’s very professional, and she has lots of experience with…” He clears his throat, looking away. “With slaves.”

He looks down when Dean fails to respond. The omega’s eyes are huge, his face white as a sheet, his plate clutched in his hands like a shield. “Dean?”

“I’m – I’m fine, alpha. You don’t have to – I can still work. _Please_ ,” he tacks on, voice breaking. His fear scent is back full force and Castiel flinches away from it, hands clenching as his body reacts instinctively, flooding his own system with adrenaline. 

He wonders, belatedly, what exactly the slave doctors listed in the file might have done to Dean to make his scent this terrified. He’s so stupid to have not thought about it before. 

“Judging by the way your wrists _alone_ look, I very much doubt that you’re fine,” Castiel says carefully, and although his voice is gentle, the way Dean blanches even further is enough to tell him that the omega knows he’s been caught in a lie and is terrified of the consequences. He tries to soften the blow as much as he can. “She is only coming to help you. Nothing sinister.” 

He looks down at the man, sees how his breathing has picked up and his fists are clenched. “Dean?”

The omega flinches. Castiel swallows at that, feeling something in him break when he sees Dean staring at the floor, dread clear on his face and in his scent. 

“Can you do something for me?”

“Yeah – yes, alpha.” He’s so _scared._ There’s something almost desperate in his voice, something he prays to God he’ll never have the first-hand experience that he’d need in order to understand. 

“I just want you to tell the doctor the truth. You don’t have to worry about what I’ll think, or what you think we might want to hear. Just the truth. Can you do that?”

Dean’s face is still far too blank. “Yes, alpha.” 

The rest of his pancakes go untouched. 

He sits at the table next to Dean for the next few hours, battling with his instinct to get him up off the floor the whole time. Dean doesn’t seem to be affected at all by the same position that had given Castiel’s legs an unpleasant ache and tingle after just a few minutes last night. Instead, the omega appears to withdraw mentally, eyes unfocused and resting on an indistinct point on the kitchen floor, his breathing even and slow. 

He doesn’t realize how tight a hold Dean has on his emotions until he gets too distracted by his thoughts and his fork slips from his hand and clatters onto his plate. Dean’s flinch is so violent Castiel is worried he’s going to bolt – and so he half stands, prepared to do… something. He’s not even sure what. Instead of running, though, Dean just settles back down after a moment that’s as tight as a bowstring and closes his eyes, sweat on his brow. He leans away from Castiel, and the alpha swallows and forces himself to sit back down. 

How much practice must Dean have, to be able to shut himself off that quickly? To stay on his knees, _inches_ from him, even though he wants to flee?

“I promise that the doctor is not going to hurt you,” he says quietly, but it’s like Dean doesn’t hear him. Maybe he doesn’t.

Castiel wants to leave, but he’s also not sure that Dean should be alone. He tries to read the paper or distract himself with his phone and tries just as unsuccessfully to not think about why Dean has been trained to kneel right next to his master’s lap, even unprompted. Tries not to think about the way Dean had nosed between his legs last night, eyes blank, or how he’d started to look like he was going to try and do the same a few minutes ago – perhaps as some sort of twisted apology for his fear? – before Castiel had pointedly scooted away. 

The doorbell announces Pamela Barnes’ arrival right on schedule, and immediately, Castiel feels more at ease. “I’ll be right back,” he says quickly, unable to escape the kitchen fast enough. Dean does not look up when he goes.

Pam has been doing this for years, far longer than Castiel has had her on his payroll. He’s glad that her work is official now, rather than out of back alleys and secretive house-calls, but it’s that experience that made her perfect for this job and convinced him she was doing it for the right reasons. 

She knows exactly what slaves expect from their “doctors”, and knows how to work around that expectation. He assumes. He’s never actually been present for an examination before, for obvious reasons, but he gathers from Balthazar’s lack of complaints that Pamela is as excellent at this part of her job as she is at the rest. 

“Where is he?” she asks him brusquely, bag in hand and glasses pushed up to her forehead haphazardly. Her beta scent is soothing and neutral, perfect for the job; it even calms Castiel down a bit.

“In the kitchen. He’s been there since this morning – I, uh. Didn’t want to make him move. He’s scared.”

“Well no shit he’s scared, Novak,” she says kindly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her hand is warm and comforting on his shoulder. “You doing alright?”

He isn’t, but he nods – this isn’t about him. Pamela gives him a sympathetic look anyway. “Let’s go take a look at him.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 of 3 (three!) that cover Pam's examination. This is a bumpy road, folks. Mind the tags. There's some more specific trigger warnings in the end notes.

Dean looks up sharply from the ground when they enter, and he can feel the blood drain from his face at the sight of a stethoscope and a white coat. His stomach churns, threatening to send back the meager bites of breakfast that he’d choked down earlier. 

But then the doctor – a female beta, thank _God_ – smiles at him, and it’s warm. Not predatory or even cold, as far as he can tell. It is the exact opposite of every doctor he has ever met, and it throws him off balance. 

“Good morning, Dean. I’m Dr. Barnes, but I’d like you to call me Pamela, as long as you’re comfortable with that. Can you stand up for me?”

She’s speaking _to_ him, not over him or about him, and it shocks him enough that he finds himself on his feet a beat later. Despite his effort not to, he can’t help but stumble a bit – his legs are numb from kneeling on the tile for so long. He wants to _stay_ on the floor. But her words are as good as an order, and he’s not going to fuck this up. He’s _not._ Because even though the doctor isn’t his master she’s close enough, and Castiel clearly wants Dean to obey her. So he will. 

“Hop up on the kitchen island for me, please.” If possible, he feels dizzier, but he does it anyway, scooting backwards until he’s seated. He feels cold and on display, like a trophy. It’s not a feeling he associates with safety. The collar is tight and hot around his neck and he just barely resists the urge to cover the sensitive spot on his nape with his palm. 

He’s not supposed to. It’s disrespectful, after all, to pretend that he has any authority over who touches him and where they do it.

She smiles again. “Thank you, Dean. Excellent job.” He swallows thickly and looks down, startled to realize that her simple words make something inside of him relax a little. Praise hasn’t often come his way, and if nothing else, it’s an indication that someone who has the power to hurt him doesn’t currently want to. 

He can feel Castiel looking at him and he hunches his shoulders further as he realizes that he’s hoping his master is _pleased_ with him. There’s something deeply fucked up about that, he thinks. He knows. Jesus Christ, his brain is scrambled. 

The doctor studies him for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Why do you think I’m here?”

The question startles Dean, and he stares at her for a half beat before looking back down. He shrugs, fingers twisting the strings of the hoodie the alpha gave him. What had his master said? Something about checking on him. He can’t remember, ‘cause he’d kinda been freaking out. But this is obviously a test, and he can’t refuse to answer. “To… to see if I’m okay enough to work?”

She looks at his master sharply, one eyebrow raised, and he holds his hands up in defense of himself. She’s a beta, so the alpha shouldn’t be intimidated by her – but maybe it’s just how quickly her expression has gone from doting grandma to pit viper. Dean leans away from her nervously. But when she turns back, her eyes soften again and she takes a breath. “Not exactly.”

Dean’s stomach swoops. Fuck, he’s gotten it wrong, and his master is going to be angry. He’s embarrassing the alpha in front of guests, and that’s a _huge_ mistake. He knows that. He’s been reminded of that lesson more times than he can count. 

“Sorry,” he blurts automatically. But his master doesn’t look upset when Dean turns to him to check if a slap is incoming. If anything, he looks… sad. When he does step closer, it’s only to pick up Dean’s abandoned plate and cup and set them on the counter near the sink, and then he returns to the edge of the kitchen. Dean clenches his fists – was he supposed to do that? The alpha hadn’t told him to, but… 

Pamela pulls up a chair and sits, and that’s strange enough that it derails Dean’s train of thought. He looks down at her. It’s not a position he finds himself in very often, being above people. Certainly not one he’s ever held with doctors. Normally he’s on the floor so sick he can’t breathe or laid out like a slab of meat on a table while they look down at _him_ like an insect _._

“I’m here to see if you’re hurt, and to help you if you are. That’s all.” 

Dean blinks at her. To see if he’s _hurt?_ Of _course_ he’s hurt. He can’t remember the last time he wasn’t in pain. But that shouldn’t matter. “I can… I can still work,” he repeats hesitantly. 

She smiles gently at him, hands folded in her lap. The fact that he can see them makes him feel better, for some reason. “Still being capable of movement and being _healthy_ are two different things, kiddo. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Numbly, Dean nods. He doesn’t get why else his new master would care what shape he’s in, though, so he doesn’t understand, not really. The slave doctors he’s been treated by before were only requested if he was about to kick the bucket. Alastair had told him, once – hissed it like a threat in his ear, his claws curled around the back of his neck – that he was protecting his _investment_. 

“Dean.” The woman’s voice is gentle. He looks her in the eyes as briefly as he can, and they’re bright and crinkled at the edges like she smiles a lot. Alastair’s empty gaze fades from his mind. “I’m going to give you a check up now, with your permission. It’s probably going to be uncomfortable for you, I won’t lie. But I won’t hurt you. What I’m going to do will be based solely on medical necessity. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

People have been asking him that a lot lately, and the answer always seems to be no. But he nods anyway, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. She pats his leg gently, and for whatever reason the touch doesn’t scare him. Maybe it’s because she’s so different from everyone who has ever hurt him – quieter and kinder, and nothing at all like the doctors from before. Those had been, at best, indifferent; at worst, nothing more than white-coated versions of the men who paid to torment him. 

“Okay,” Pamela says, and she smiles at him again. “If at any point you want me to stop, all you have to do is say so, and I promise I will.”

Dean very nearly laughs out loud at that, but he catches himself just in time. The thought that he would _dare_ to tell her what to do is hilarious, let alone the idea that she might _listen._ But he nods again, because she seems to be waiting for him to. 

He can do this. Castiel has ordered him to tell the truth, and he’s going to. It won’t be so bad – or at least it won’t be as bad as it will be if he ruins this. He’s gotta hold onto that, remind himself of it, because otherwise he’s going to puss out or do something stupid and he’ll be right back where he was a week ago. 

“Before we get started, I suppose I should ask. Do you want Castiel to be here?”

His eyes widen as he stares at her, glancing at his master with a nervous swallow. What kind of question is that? The alpha looks almost uncomfortable in the arched doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed and shoulders hunched. Strangely out of place in his own home. 

He clears his throat. “Whatever pleases you, alpha.”

It’s a response he’d heard hundreds if not thousands of times from slaves who behave themselves, so he thinks it’s safe to use here. Instantly, though, he knows he’s fucked up, because Castiel shakes his head almost violently. 

“No.” The word hits him like a rock to the temple. “No, Dean. It’s your choice.”

 _Choice?_ He’s not used to choices. Hadn’t even stopped to consider what he wanted, if he’s honest. 

He does so now, and finds that he’s torn. He _doesn’t_ want Castiel there, because even though the doctor will tell him everything he wants to know anyway, exposing weaknesses in front of a man who owns him is not something Dean wants to do. But he’s also supposed to be a good slave, and a good slave wouldn’t dare presume to send his master away. So he just sits there, stupid and quiet and stuck, and Castiel eventually softens. 

“How about I stay in the room, but remain over here?” he offers, tapping the doorframe. “You can tell me if you want me to leave at any point.” 

Heart in his throat, Dean nods because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The doctor doesn’t get up from her chair. She peers over her glasses at him. He fidgets under her gaze, wishing they could just get this over with. “Let’s start with some basics. What have you been eating?”

He lets a long, slow breath out, willing his heartbeat to slow down. He can do this. “Uh… this morning I had… pancakes?” It had been bewildering to realize Castiel had cooked for him again, but he’d been too nervous to question it. He hadn’t been hungry in the slightest, but he’d figured it would be rude to refuse them outright, even if his stomach had been churning at the sight of so much food. He could probably survive on what his master had fed him last night for three or four days. 

He’s lived for longer on less, honestly. 

“He didn’t eat much,” the alpha adds, grimacing as he glances Dean’s way. “I think he was nervous.”

He can feel himself start to freeze up. God, fuck. He should have just crammed them down. He’d been nauseous when Castiel had told him about the doctor, and he’d been too busy trying to stay calm to want to eat. He had thought that because of what Castiel had told him last night it would be okay for him to stop, but it’d been so stupid to refuse his master’s food over something like _that_ – 

“Well, that’s alright.” Pamela breaks through his wall of panic with gentle words. “Understandable. Let me rephrase. What were they feeding you _before,_ and how often?”

Dean swallows a few times and very nearly fails to cram down his urge to bolt. Castiel doesn’t _look_ upset, but maybe… He’s just frowning that same little frown, eyes searching as Dean’s mouth flaps like a fish that’s gasping in the air. 

“Um. I don’t. Um.” He can’t get the words out – they’re tangled up, tripping over whatever is lodged in his chest. 

“Deep breaths.”

Castiel’s calm, deep-voiced order cuts right through his panic even though there’s no _alpha_ tone laced through it. “It’s alright. Deep breaths,” he repeats. “Just like you did before. Good job, Dean.” 

He gasps in and out, feeling stupid, feeling weak, like a naive _idiot_ for being soothed by the alpha’s praise. But, after a few seconds, it actually starts to help. His master frowns. “I’m not angry with you. Are you…” he looks at Pamela, and then back at Dean, something that looks remarkably like uncertainty clouding his eyes. “Are you certain I should be here?”

Dean nods quickly. It’s better than the alternative – if the alpha stays, at least he’ll see that Dean isn’t lying. That he’s doing what he was ordered to do. Going with what his master desires is usually the safest choice, and since he thinks it’s what Castiel wants, he doesn’t really _have_ a choice. 

He also won’t have to worry that his master will discover something later and take it out on him. Better to just get it over with now. Rip off the bandaid.

He closes his eyes, takes a few more deep breaths. “They,” he starts, and his voice is rough and scratchy – has it always been like that? He doesn’t remember the last time he talked this much – “They, uh, usually fed me once a day, ‘less I was… You know.” He doesn’t want to say it, because he doesn’t want his new master to think that he’s incapable of doing what he’s supposed to. But he admits it anyway because the alpha told him not to lie, and lies by omission probably count. “Unless I didn’t… earn it.”

Pamela frowns, but it’s his master who asks the obvious question, an edge to his voice that Dean hasn’t heard since he growled at the auction house. “Earn it?”

Dean looks at his hands. “When I was… when I didn’t follow orders.”

The alpha’s scent changes at that, sharpens into something new. Something Dean is _intimately_ familiar with. 

He’s _angry._

Dean swallows, hurries to add, “But it won’t be like that here, alpha.” He wouldn’t _dare_ be defiant here, not when there’s so much to lose, not when his master has told him he can earn the privilege of being safe. 

“No, it will not,” the alpha snaps, and Dean flinches into himself. Before he can fall on the ground and start apologizing, though, Pamela breaks in. 

“Do you know _what_ they were feeding you?”

He bites his lip, looking up at her. Tries to ignore the towering figure of his master in the corner of his eye. It takes him a second to process her question, but he answers as soon as he does. “Some m-mealy stuff. Um. Mushy and b-brown.”

“Oatmeal?”

Her tone is even, clinical but gentle, and it helps him get a handle on himself. His master is clearly pissed, but he’s not lunging at Dean right now, so he’ll probably wait until Pamela leaves to punish him. He doesn’t want to dig his grave any further, so he forces himself to shake his head. “I… I dunno. Didn’t taste like much. There was, um, white powder in it? Sometimes.”

Pamela nods, writing something on her clipboard. “Uh huh. Probably a vitamin mix. And you said once a day? Could you estimate how much?”

“Um.” He thinks back. “A bowl? ‘Bout yay-big.” He holds out his hands and sees that they’re shaking. Pamela seems to notice that too, because she glances at them and writes something else down. 

“Right. Well, that’s not nearly enough food for someone of your build, Dean, vitamins or no,” she says simply. “You’re going to want to start increasing how much you eat.”

Like that’s up to him. Like it was ever his _choice_ to be hungry every damn night, even when he earned his meal. He figures, though, that she’s chastising him for being this emaciated – it is, after all, his fault that he’d been starved so often. If he’d been better behaved he would have been fed more. The fact that he’d refused to eat this morning looks especially bad now.

He glances at his master, wondering if he’s going to be in trouble after all. The man is nodding, a dark look on his face. He glances at Dean, and his eyes rake over him like he’s sizing up just how pathetically skinny he is.

“You really should be more careful about what you’re cooking, at least for a while. Simpler things would be better,” Pamela says, giving the alpha a stern look. “Soups, toast, juice. Things of that nature.”

His master doesn’t look any more angry about the doctor’s suggestion that he’s feeding Dean the wrong things – as if he’d _ever_ have complained. He just nods, his mouth a solemn line. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t even think about that.” He gives Dean a long look. “We will both need to be more careful about what you eat in the future, Dean.”

He feels a swoop of dread that makes his stomach churn, empty or not. That’s his first punishment earned for sure, now. He’ll have to learn not to miss meals. Obedience has never been his strong suit, and considering how often he’d been punished with an empty stomach in the past he’s not exactly confident in his ability to get fed more. Food was always the first thing Alastair took away, and he wonders if his new master will be the same. 

Better food than the post. Not that he has any doubt that this alpha has _some_ way of making a lesson stick that goes above amateur starvation. 

Apparently ignorant to his roiling stomach, Pamela is already moving on. “Right. Okay, on to a slightly harder question, which, to be honest, I just want to get out of the way early on.” 

Dean stiffens. Whatever she’s about to bring up has put a real apologetic expression on her face that he doesn’t like the look of at all. Her tone is sympathetic, at least, though it doesn’t make the blow sting any less when it lands. “Were you ever drugged?”

His mouth is suddenly very, very dry. He looks away from her, down at his hands, at the floor. Anywhere he doesn’t have to face that disgust that he knows must be in her eyes, the anger that must be in the alpha’s. She takes his silence for the answer it obviously is, and pushes, albeit gently. “How? What were the symptoms?”

He closes his eyes. _Get through this. Just get through this, and you’re gonna be fine._ It sounds like a lie even now, but he has to cling to something. If he doesn’t, he’s gonna end up in a whacked out ball of nerves on the ground, and he doesn’t want to freak out again. 

“Um. It was. In the water, sometimes. It just made me… more obedient, I guess.” His voice is hoarse. He doesn’t want his master to think he has to drug him for him to obey, but that’s the impression he just gave. And it was the truth, at the time. “I was there, you know, but, um. Fuzzy. Slower. Kinda dizzy, didn’t really know what was happening.” His chest is tight. “Made it hard to breathe, sometimes.”

He can hear Pamela scratching at the clipboard, but he’s not brave enough to look up to see his master’s reaction. “It was probably ketamine, based on what you’re describing.”

The word is meaningless to him, but he nods anyway. He bites his cheek, considers if he wants to offer up more. He’s been ordered to tell the truth, so the truth it’s gotta be. 

“Uh. A few times they just. Knocked me out.” He prays she won’t ask why, that he won’t have to tell her about his futile escape attempts early on under Alastair’s care. About the first time he woke up chained down – not in the retraining facility, where he’d expected, but _back in Hell,_ with no memory of how he’d been caught and hauled back. About the agony of the punishments he’d suffered for his trouble. 

He’d stopped running after the third time. Too much of a coward to face that pain again, and defeated enough to know that he’d never get away. Alastair had been _disappointed_. He’d enjoyed Dean’s pathetic attempts at freedom, in his gleeful, twisted way. 

She doesn’t ask him to elaborate, thankfully. Neither does his master. He still can’t make himself look up to _see_ the anger he can already smell coming from his new master. Now he thinks he’s got a slave that can’t do anything without being drugged up first. It’s not the truth, not anymore. Not if he wants to stay here – and God, he _does_. But now isn’t the time for begging and pleading. 

“What about other kinds of drugs?” Pamela’s soft question pulls him out of his thoughts. “Things that induced heats?”

Dean’s pretty sure that should be a damn _obvious_ answer, considering where he came from. He wants to bite out something sarcastic and caustic, but the truth is that he can’t even look at her. If he opens his mouth he thinks he might be sick. The little wall he’s built up around those times in his life trembles and cracks. Arms curl around him and grip his sides, fingers dig into his ribs, and he keeps his eyes open because if he closes them all he’s gonna see is Alastair.

“A simple yes or no will do, honey,” Pamela says, and her voice is so gentle it almost makes him angry. No one is ever gentle with him. 

He can feel his nails digging into his palms. “Yes.” And damn if his voice doesn’t crack.

Pamela makes a humming noise and stands up, brushing her hands off on her pants. “Often?”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think that the dozen or so times that it happened could be considered _often_ – not with how long he’d been there, not with what the other slaves dealt with. He’s sure they probably had it worse. So, slowly, he shakes his head.

The trick heats – the ones triggered by drugs instead of feelings of safety and contentment, so glaringly artificial that no matter how many times he’s fucked he can’t get pregnant – had made him feel like he was on fire, like something inside him was twisting and clawing its way out. His body never seemed to be able to understand it wasn’t real, and his brain had warped till he’d known nothing except that if he didn’t get a knot in him right that _instant_ he was going to burn to death. 

Most of the clients had wanted him to struggle, he thinks, so they could _make_ him submit – they hadn’t wanted any semblance of willingness. Alastair had stopped drugging him that way pretty early on. Apparently he made more money if he _wasn’t_ begging for it. More money if he was screaming _no_ than screaming _yes._

He’s wretchedly thankful for that, though he doesn’t know if he should be. All he knows is that he’s never hated himself more than he did after waking up from a feverish heat and having to face the glazed over memories of what he’d pleaded for.

She lets him get control of himself, leaves him alone until he can breathe again. But when he finally looks up at his master, the man’s eyes are distant. Glazed. Dean can _smell_ his rage, simmering under the deceptively calm surface, his jawline hard and severe as he clenches his teeth.

He starts shaking, hard. Can’t stop his hands from sliding up and covering the back of his neck, his fingers laced together, can’t stop himself from hunching as low as he can on the cold kitchen island. He’d be on the floor right now if he hadn’t been ordered to stay here. 

It’s not like he _asked_ to have chemicals pumped into him, not like he asked to be fucked into the mattress they always chained him to while he was fading in and out of consciousness from heat sickness and dehydration. But he knows alphas don’t see it that way. He knows they will always blame him, will always punish him for being a slut or a whore or a tease.

He’s an omega. He’s asking for it, even if he’s kicking and screaming and crying the whole goddamn time. 

“Sorry, alpha,” he whispers. He has to do _something_ to abate the man’s anger, even if it’s futile.

But to his surprise, it seems to work – his master’s scent dissipates until it vanishes into nothing, and when he dares to raise his head again the alpha is looking away, jaw working. “Don’t apologize,” he finally growls, and Dean swallows. Yet another thing that his new master doesn’t have in common with his old. Alastair had _loved_ to hear him grovel. That’s gonna be a hard habit to break.

“Thank you for your honesty, Dean.” Pamela’s voice startles him, and he snaps his attention back to her. Her words register. His shoulders relax and he breathes a slow sigh of relief, drops his hands. He’s being good after all, at least for her. That’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: discussion of past rape/non-con and sexual violence, discussion of past non-con drug use, discussion of m-preg.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnndddd chapter 2/3 for Pam's visit. This one is just as rough (if not more) as the first, so keep that in mind and please mind the tags! The next chapter should be up shortly!

She lets him take a break after that, and it would be welcome if being alone in the room didn't mean he was also alone with his thoughts. 

The doctor had smiled at him and then patted his hand, told him to take a breather, and then had jerked her head at the alpha and left in a hurry. His master had followed her, and their footsteps had faded, and now Dean can just make out what sounds like a tense discussion a few rooms away. 

He takes a steadying breath and regrets it immediately, the lingering scent of his master’s anger still thick in the air. Dizzy, he closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself. 

God, he doesn’t want Castiel to punish him. It’s only been a few days since he was last disciplined, but he can already feel the tolerance he’s built for that sort of pain fading away. He really wanted to do this right, but all he’s done is fuck it up. He wonders if his master is describing to the doctor how he’s going to hurt Dean – it wouldn’t surprise him if he was setting up a follow-up visit for a few days to clean up what’s left of him. 

When the doctor finally returns, she has a grim look to her mouth that makes his stomach clench. His master trails in behind her, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen once more, and Dean can’t find the courage to look up and check how angry he must be.

But then Pamela shakes off her irritation and smiles at him again, and it’s so at odds with the steel trap around his lungs that he feels like he’s getting whiplash. “When you’re ready, Dean, I want you to tell me where you’re injured. Nothing is too small, so don’t skip over anything, even if you think it’s not a big deal.”

Dean swallows, nods, and Pamela’s face softens into something even more gentle. She doesn’t need to remind him not to lie – it’s all he can fucking think about. He’d gone back and forth in his head in the hours before her arrival about whether it would be better to keep his weaknesses to himself, or come clean. But telling the truth will show his master he _is_ capable of following orders, despite what the state of him might suggest, and he is determined to secure his safety in any way he can. Short term discipline for being damaged goods is better than long term consequences for being a liar, at least in his experience. 

His pride is long gone and his master can take whatever he wants, anyway, regardless of whether or not Dean wants him to. There is no _point_ in lying. So, in the end, there’d been no choice at all. 

Still, he’s not even sure exactly where all he’s hurt. He can guess, he supposes, based on his brief self assessment in the shower last night. The whole time he’d been cleaning himself, he’d been thinking about how much worse it could have been. The explosion that had taken Hell down had missed him, flames far away from the dark, freezing shed he’d been in, chained to the post, bleeding sluggishly. He’d never thought he’d consider that punishment _lucky_. 

He’s still not sure he does. 

He opens his eyes and Pamela is patiently waiting. Biting his lip, he glances over at his master, remembering the way the man had looked at his wrists before. Those wounds seem trivial, to Dean, but the alpha had seemed to think they were important. His master nods at him, so he reluctantly pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. The marks look ugly in the clean, bright kitchen.

Pamela’s hand on his arm startles him so badly that he wrenches back, sucking in a breath so fast that he nearly chokes on it. He tenses, waits for a reprimand, but she takes a step away from him with her hands raised instead. 

“Here to help, Dean. Remember?”

He shudders and closes his eyes. Shit. Shit shit _shit_ . He’s fucking up. He’s resisting, and resisting is bad. It’s _always_ bad. 

He jerks his arm back out toward her and forces himself to hold it there, gritting his teeth against the instinct to better protect something that’s already injured. But Pamela doesn’t touch him. She waits until his eyes are open again. 

“Let me know when you’re okay to be touched,” she says, no judgement or condemnation in her tone, and it takes Dean a long time to process her words. As soon as he does, he nods, not keen to waste any more time or disrespect his master by pretending he has any agency over himself. 

Pamela starts forward again, but this time she makes sure her movements are obvious and slow. Her touch is cool and soothing on the skin around the bruises and scabs. “Shackles made these?” Dean flicks his eyes up to her, nods. “How long were they on?”

He tries to count up the months and finds, depressingly, that he can’t. “Um. I don’t know.”

“Longer than a week.” It’s not a question. “Longer than a month?” 

He nods again. “Longer than a year?” This time, he doesn’t respond right away, trying to work up the courage, but his silence is a pretty deafening answer. Pamela makes a tsking noise and turns his hand over, examining the other side. “You pulled against them?”

She’s asking if he’s a bad slave, and he knows the answer is yes. He’d never been compliant like he should have, even when he’d suspected that some of the clients had _liked_ that he fought. Never been able to lie there passively like he’d seen the slave before him do. She’d gone into that wing of Hell fighting and spitting and had come out hollow-eyed and empty and then, not long after, she’d disappeared forever. He’d told himself he wouldn’t let that happen when he was taken from the normal rotation as her replacement, just a few months into his stay in Hell.

So, the bruises have always been bad – but the cuts are his own fault. When the bomb had gone off, he’d been so panicked and sick with fear that he’d be the next one into the flames that he’d flailed against his bindings, too blind with terror to realize he was slicing himself to ribbons; too scared, even, to stop putting more pressure on his neck by pulling backwards. 

The officer that’d found him, hours later, had snapped the chains with bolt cutters and Dean had collapsed to the ground, too exhausted to hold himself up.

He can’t say any of that without his new master finding out exactly how bad of a slave he is. So, he skirts the question, praying the alpha won’t think he’s lying. 

“They… when I was working, they kept them on.” He hopes she won’t ask why, and he doesn’t mention that he was pretty much always “working”. Doesn’t mention that even when the chain was off, the shackles stayed on his wrists; heavy, unwelcome reminders of his place. 

When they’d cut them off at the holding facility, his arms had felt so light he’d thought they’d float away. He’d cried like a bitch yesterday when they’d cuffed his hands behind his back to move him out of his cell. The guard had slapped him for his trouble. 

Pamela makes another tsking noise and rummages in her bag again. “Can’t do much for the bruising – it’ll fade eventually. But I’ve got cream for the lacerations. I want you to put it on twice a day but let them breathe. They need to, to heal properly and without scars.” 

He nearly laughs. _Scars_ were something he’d stopped worrying about a very long time ago. He doesn’t really think that the doctor would find it as funny, though, so instead he nods. Pam purses her lips like she can tell what he’s thinking anyway, but she doesn’t call him on it. “How about your upper body? Your back? How’s that looking?”

Bad, probably. He’d avoided looking too hard at himself in the shower, knowing that the bruises and cuts on him were going to be displeasing to his master. Every single one of them shows how much he’s been used and how shit of a slave he really is. The auction house hadn’t exactly been falling all over themselves to show his new master his body when he’d come to inspect Dean, choosing instead to leave him covered. They’d probably been worried that the alpha would try and bargain them down, citing damaged goods. 

In his experience, masters don’t like to see evidence of others taking what’s theirs. And they _hate_ the idea that they won’t be obeyed.

He stares at his hands, heart pounding, until Pamela’s gentle cool palm touches his arm. “Dean?”

He glances up to his master’s face and looks down just as quickly. The man doesn’t smell or look angry anymore. His face is carefully distant, almost clinical. Dean blinks back into the now, cheeks reddening. 

He has to be good. 

“I can just…” 

He slides the hoodie off of himself with difficulty, wincing as the fabric brushes against his injuries. His master inhales sharply and Dean’s eyes are on him immediately, arms jumping up to cross against his chest as though that will protect him. The air of the house is cold against his skin and goosebumps rise on his arms and neck. He’s glad that his pants sit high enough on his waist to hide the worst of the damage, but there’s plenty to look at anyway. 

Pamela gently takes the hoodie from his hands and sets it to the side, stepping back a bit. She glances at his master, some silent message darting between them that Dean is too anxious to catch. 

“How old are these?” She’s gesturing at a series of dark bruises along his side and back and he bites his lip. He doesn’t know, so he shakes his head. “Did you bleed when you urinated?”

Heart pounding as he feels the alpha’s gaze on his skin like a red hot iron, he answers. “A little. I think. Not anymore.” His voice sounds stupid and weak and he clears his throat, shifting back and forth nervously. He can’t make himself look up at his master, can’t make himself see the anger or disgust he knows is there. He can’t smell it over the acrid, burnt hair stench of his own fear, but it _must_ be. 

Pamela nods, concern easing a little around her eyes, and slowly moves to his side so she can check his back. He should turn himself around, he knows, but he can’t make himself put his back to his master. He doesn’t want him to see evidence of his disobedience, and there’s no clearer indication than the lashes across his shoulders. 

The ghost touch of Pamela’s fingertips along the ridges of his spine startles him and he tears his attention away from his lap to watch her. She never presses too hard, never hurts him, her mouth thinning with every ridge she finds until it’s a little white line. 

“What made these marks?”

His mouth is dry and he can’t answer till she backs away and gives him space to breathe. He assumes she means the long, thin bruises – not the lash marks, which are obvious, and not the faded white lines from beatings come and gone. 

“Cane,” he croaks. 

It’d been the night before the firebomb. He’d been so bad and uncooperative with a regular client – one that always wanted to _kiss_ him as he fucked him, like he was choosing it, like he _wanted_ it – that, in a moment of insanity, he’d tried to bite him. So he’d been forced to drink water dosed with poison. The alpha had shoved the bottle in his mouth and held his nose till he swallowed. 

It’d made him weak and dazed but he’d still remembered everything – every grope, slap and bite, every whistling, screaming impact of that hateful cane. The dosage had been low enough for him to still be awake to beg, and that had probably made things worse. That client had _liked_ to see him cry. And, in the end, when Dean was too exhausted to protest again, he’d kissed all his tears away and then taken him just the same, his hand gripping the back of his neck needlessly, like Dean wasn’t already submitting in every possible way.

He’d still been too tired to struggle when Alastair had dragged him outside, too tired to stop himself from crying out when he was whipped for his defiance on top of the bruises. It reminds him that his master is seeing yet more evidence that he can’t behave himself, and that makes his stomach turn violently.

Still, that behavior was what got him out of the blast radius, so he guesses he should be thankful for it now. If he hadn’t been punished, he’d have been hit by the bomb, and he’d be dead like all the rest of those sick fuckers and the nameless slaves that had been with them in their beds.

He’d seen the rubble of the building as they’d dragged him away. He’d been secluded for so long that he hadn’t known any of the regular pleasure slaves who had died, but he’d felt sad for them anyway, knowing that they’d had an abrupt end to a miserable life. Dean had never resented them, though he’d tried – it wasn’t _their_ fault that he had become the whipping boy of the whorehouse while they got to cater to the average clientele, the ones who just wanted a quick fuck and not a dog to beat. 

He _had_ prayed that Alastair had been under it all. He doesn’t know if his former master is dead, but he thinks he must be. He’d heard the handlers whisper to each other that Dean had been the only survivor. Besides, there was no way Alastair would have let him be sold otherwise – he’d tried for years to cause enough damage or trouble to get the alpha to sell him back, and he’d never even come close.

Pamela’s light touch rips him from his thoughts, _way_ too close to his nape for comfort. He jerks forward, heart pounding, mouth dry. 

She drops her hand and takes a step back. There’s something hard in her eyes, something murderous, so he ducks his head, hands clenching around his neck even as he pleads. “Sorry, _sorry_ ,” he chokes, “I didn’t mean to – I know I shouldn’t move, I’m _sorry_ –” 

“Relax, Dean,” she interrupts calmly, her voice low. There’s nothing angry about her tone, though there’d been plenty of rage in her eyes moments ago. “There’s… I was just examining your nape.”

She waits, expectant, and he suppresses a wave of nausea. “Was bad,” he confesses, because that’s what he’s always been expected to do. His hands tremble as he covers the spot on his neck that he knows is dark with bruises. He’s just glad that the cuts have healed from the last time Alastair decided to whip him there.

She closes her eyes. Takes a long breath in through her nose, lets it out through her mouth. “Your master did that to you?”

Dean blinks back hot, panicked tears, and can’t make himself answer, because it’s obvious that’s what happened. Has been happening for years. Pamela cocks her jaw to the side, turns around. For the first time, he wonders if the anger is not for him, but is instead on his behalf, because she shakes her head and blows another slow breath out of her mouth like she’s trying to control her reaction. 

He chances a look at his master. The alpha has put a hand to his mouth and is looking away, which is… not exactly what Dean had been expecting. He looks _sickened_ – not enraged, not possessive, not even disgusted. Just ill. He inhales, despite himself, and all he can pick up on is his own distress. 

Dean can’t help but be relieved by that. It seems that his new master isn’t a huge fan of how his old one treated him, at least in that way. He knows that lots of alphas feel strongly about an omega’s nape. Most of them act like it has religious significance, like it’s some kind of sacred spot, even for slaves. _Most_ only touch it enough to control them, and don’t hurt omegas there even if the rest of their body is fair game. 

Alastair hadn’t been that way. He’ll never forget the first time his master clawed and twisted the sensitive skin – he’d literally _fainted._

Judging by the nauseous expression on his new master’s face, Castiel won’t be doing that. He’s so grateful he could cry. His hands slip from his neck, back to the cold counter, and he hopes that no one tries to cuff him so he won’t do that again. He clenches his fists. 

Back in control of her anger, Pamela pulls yet another tube of medication out of her bag and adds it to a growing pile, tapping it lightly. “That’s numbing cream. It’ll help for obvious reasons.” 

Her hand grips his shoulder briefly and he’s so startled that he doesn’t have a chance to make sense of why he would be granted anything to numb a punishment he earned. Maybe she doesn’t know it was his fault, that he tried to fight back. “There’s no need for stitches on your back, surprisingly, and it looks like the auction house cleaned you up okay.”

He just stares at her, too numb to make sense of what she’s saying. She smiles. “Alright, Dean. You’re doing great so far. I’d like to take your blood pressure now, which might pinch a little but won’t really hurt. Then your weight and pulse.” 

Dean nods – he remembers those things, at least, from childhood tv shows and movies. True to her word, there’s no pain, though she frowns at the numbers she sees. When she helps him down from the counter to weigh him on a little scale she pulls from her bag, she shakes her head. “Really have to get some meat on those bones, kid,” she mutters. 

Then she takes his pulse, puts the stethoscope on his back and chest and makes him breathe deeply. He coughs a bit, but she says that’s probably from the smoke inhalation and he believes her. After all, it was the smell of the fire that had made him flail like a coyote in a trap.

“Anything else bothering you up here before you put your shirt back on?”

He wracks his brain then shakes his head no and she hands him back the hoodie, and when it’s on again he feels about a thousand times more at ease. It doesn’t make sense, because if he was ordered to he’d have to take it right back off, but it’s nice to feel less exposed. 

“Okie-dokie, kiddo. What’s next?”

He takes a long time to answer, but neither of them rush him, and eventually he picks at his pantlegs. This is what he’d been dreading, more than anything. He’s got one job, and he knows what it is, and now he’s going to have to reveal that the reason his master bought him is still torn to shit from the last session he’d had in Hell. His master could punish him for that. 

Or… 

Or _worse,_ he could decide he just doesn’t want to bother. 

As soon as he realizes _that,_ a new fear creeps into him. It was a stroke of luck, Castiel buying him. He knows he’s not fit for anything but another whorehouse at this point, with how fucked up he is, but his new master had purchased him before he could be sold en masse on the cheap with other rejects. 

He knows this, at least, with a dark, grim certainty: he’ll die before going back to another man like Alastair. And all of a sudden he’s realized how big of a possibility being sent back _is._ If the alpha can’t use him, if he can’t be good enough for this man, he might be returned to the auction house. Returned to his life from before.

He might as well beg his master to kill him now rather than risk _that_ , because he doesn’t think he’ll survive if his master decides he isn’t worth the trouble. Not after this glimpse at what his life could be.

But he’d given Dean an order. 

“Um. There’s some stuff down… there,” he says, voice shaking, hoping she’ll understand. She seems to, because her face softens. 

“Novak, turn around.”

Dean watches, bewildered, as he does just that, moving a little too quickly. Pamela offers her hand to help him down from the island. He stands uncertainly, legs shaky. “I’ll need to see it to treat it,” she explains, and he swallows when he understands what she means. 

“Do I have to?” he whispers, already knowing the answer. 

But she shakes her head, to his surprise. “No. I’m not going to make you do anything.”

It’s the wildest thing he’s ever heard and he had no idea how to process it. So instead, he stares at her, sure he’s misunderstood. “What?”

“I told you that I’m here to help you. Sending you into a panic attack isn’t going to help anything.”

He stares at her, meeting her eyes, and he can see no lie there. His master is still turned to face the wall, his arms crossed. He hasn’t said anything. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. What the fuck is he supposed to do? 

Pamela catches him looking, and frowns at his master. “I’m going to make an executive decision here, if you two don’t mind. Novak?”

“Yes?”

“Get out.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but his master doesn’t get offended. He simply nods at the wall and then turns back to look at Dean briefly. “I’ll be in the other room, Dean. Yell if you want me to come back, okay?”

He can only nod stupidly, so he does, and watches as the alpha hurries out of the room. 

When his master is gone, Pamela turns back to look at him and pats his arm. “You can say no, you know.” Dean blinks at her. “I won’t tell him, if that’s what you’re worried about. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

He shakes his head at the obvious lie, and she looks at him curiously. He averts his eyes, mutters, “That’s for free people,” because he just can’t help himself. 

Pamela just raises an eyebrow. “When you’re my patient, you’ll follow my rules.” When she pauses, Dean nods. “And my rules say that the specifics of what procedures I do stay between us unless you say otherwise. So.”

She leans back on the table and adjusts her glasses. “You can say no. Or, you can let me check you out and fix what I can and we can keep anything I find to ourselves – I’ll give him the bare minimum that he needs for you to be safe.”

He’s got no idea if Pamela is being truthful, but it seems like a complicated scheme to lie. He would do what she told him anyway, with or _without_ reassurances, and they both know it. Dean almost wishes that she wasn’t doing this, that she’d just strap him down and do what she wanted so that he doesn’t have to make any choices and worry they’re the wrong ones.

He doesn’t know what’s going to hurt him worse and he’s so scared he’s sick. But he _does_ know he doesn’t want anyone to see what’s been done to him, knows that he doesn’t want to give his master any reason not to want him. And so he gives an answer unconsciously, backing a step away from her without thinking through the consequences. 

Pamela gives him a sad little smile. “Alright.” 

His head is spinning so hard it feels like he’s on a tilt-a-whirl. He as good as said no. He said _no,_ and she’s listening, and he isn’t getting the shit kicked out of him and she isn’t running to tell his master, and she isn’t angry. Pamela is packing her things away now, clearly ready to go, and lingering doubts he’d had about her forcing him to expose himself fade. 

Stupid. He’s being _stupid._ He knows what the right choice is supposed to be and he refuses to fuck this up. 

He clears his throat, and her eyes are on him instantly. “Yes, Dean?”

“Um. I’m sorry. You can. You know,” he says intelligently, heart racing again. “If you… need to.”

Pamela raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure?” And he isn’t, at all, but he nods anyway. 

She perks up and smiles at him and that calms a lot of the anxiety that had begun to jump through him like sparks of electricity. Dean knows he made the right decision. His master will find out just how damaged he is the first time he decides to use him anyway. The illusion of his privacy is just that – an illusion. Slaves don’t get that. Don’t get to say no to anything without consequences. 

Anything that might earn him the slightest bit of approval from his master is something he should do, no matter how uncomfortable it’s going to make him. If the damage is enough that he’ll be sent back, it will happen regardless of whether or not he’s cooperative now. Might as well hope for the best and bite the bullet. 

She snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and the sound makes his stomach roll. “I’m just going to do a superficial exam, Dean,” she reassures gently, when he takes another instinctual step back. “I promise that I won’t be invasive.”

He knows that he’s staring at her and knows he probably looks like a scared rabbit. She studies him. “Would you prefer to lay down on the island, or–” 

He’s already shaking his head frantically, so she pauses. “Then I need you to bend over the counter with your legs apart.” She says it slowly, watching his reaction. “You can still say no, honey.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. She lets him tug down his own pants even though it takes far too long, _way_ longer than what would get him punished under normal circumstances. When she motions for him to bend, he forces himself to after a long moment, his own breath harsh and loud in his ears. She’s crouched behind him when he turns around to look and that makes him feel better – makes him almost forget the ghosts of hands gripping his neck or clawing into his back or pulling at his mouth when he’s been in this position before. 

Her touch is light and clinical when she pokes around, and she never hurts him, still true to her word. The air is cold, stinging, and he shudders as her fingers brush over what he knows is some major bruising. 

He’s so tired of bruises.

When her touch retreats, he looks down at her with a gulp, nervous. The viper look is back in her eyes and he stiffens, nausea rolling through him because he knows exactly why. 

She reaches up and brushes the ugly scar just below his navel, the one that goes deep into his belly, the one he never looks at and never touches and never quite manages to not think about.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She reaches up and brushes the ugly scar just below his navel, the one that goes deep into his belly, the one he never looks at and never touches and never quite manages to not think about._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice long chapter for you guys! Hope you enjoy a little taste of the fluff to come. It isn't much, but we've got to start somewhere. Sorry to leave you all on a cliff-hanger last chapter!

The thing about omegas that people tended to forget was that they needed to be in ideal conditions to have natural heats – needed to be _healthy._ For that biological clock to turn on, Dean would have needed to feel secure enough to raise offspring, and he’s not sure he’s ever felt that safe in his life. He figures it’s supposed to be evolution’s way of being sure that kids weren’t born into starvation. 

So, of course, it had never occurred to him that he would have to worry about getting knocked up by any of the alphas who had taken him under Alastair’s ownership. After all, he'd already been a slave for years before he’d arrived in Hell, and had never once had a pregnancy scare. 

Alastair hadn’t felt that biology was insurance enough, though. 

He had wanted to be _sure_ Dean would never get pregnant – he’d be useless like that. He’d made that clear, and the very first time Dean had tried to run he’d used it as his excuse to execute the crude surgery. “ _Who knows if the little bitch got knocked up while it was gone,”_ he’d hissed, and then all Dean had known was white hot agony. 

He expects to see disgust or disappointment in Pamela’s eyes as she stares at the scar – he’s useless as he is now. An omega bitch that’s broken, inside _and_ out. His big secret revealed. But when she meets his gaze, it’s soft, matronly, and she takes a deep breath. “They did a number on you,” she finally says, and Dean looks away, something hot pressing against the back of his eyes as he struggles to keep his shit together. 

“How long ago was this?” she asks quietly, thumbing the scar with a light touch. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. Ashamed to admit that he has no idea how long he’s been in Hell. The days had blended together enough that he doesn’t even know for sure what _year_ it is, let alone the month or the day. “A long time.”

Pamela reaches up and lays her cool palm over one of his hands, squeezing gently. “I’d have to do an ultrasound to be absolutely sure,” she says softly, “but I imagine you already know what I’m about to say. It would have been unlikely for you to conceive, anyway, but this…” she trails off, mouth pressed into a thin line. “This makes it impossible.”

He nods. Blinks back wetness in his eyes that makes no sense. 

He had never _wanted_ kids _,_ anyway _,_ so it’s stupid that her assessment twists something inside of him. The last thing he needed was to bring a baby into his fucked up world, to a fucked up dad and a fucked up life. Maybe he should be grateful that Alastair made sure he couldn’t. 

He’s not, though. No matter how many times he’s tried to convince himself. 

“Please don’t tell my master,” he chokes. He doesn’t know why he bothers – his new master is _going_ to see this scar. He’s going to know regardless of whether Pamela tells him or not. But he can’t stomach the thought, doesn’t want to face consequences faster than he has to. Can’t stop clinging to the stupid idea that he can convince his master that he’s worth keeping anyway, as broken as he is.

Pamela squeezes his hand. “I won’t, Dean.”

He believes her. He can’t say why. 

Thankfully, she moves on after that, and he can go back to pretending that scar isn’t there. His pelvis is essentially one big bruise and there are more stripes from the cane pretty much everywhere. Pamela skims her hands over them clinically, but gently. He still shudders. 

She straightens and gestures to his pants and he pulls them back on in a hurry, hands shaking a little more than he’d like. It’s not like he isn’t _used_ to being naked. But it’s never brought anything good. She helps him sit back down on the island, her touch gentle.

“Did they use lubrication?”

Dean shakes his head before he can lose his nerve, mortification washing over him along with more than a little fear. He prays she won’t tell his master this either. The men who had taken him usually wanted it to be as painful as possible. That’s the kind of bitch he was, after all – a plaything for sadists. It’s not like he’d been turned on enough to slick much, to make it easy on himself. So from anyone’s perspective but his own, the damage down there is really _his_ fault, because he’s a broken omega that can’t take a knot like he’s supposed to.

She nods at that and pulls a few more bottles from her bag. “These are for possible infection and these are to deal with any STIs – your paperwork from the auction-house says you don’t have any, but I think we’re better off safe than sorry, especially because there’s no specific mention of your abdominal scarring on it. I want you to take one of each every day with a full meal.”

He just nods, a bit numb. The bottles feel big in his hands. He thinks, cautiously, that the exam might be over – it sure looks that way, because Pamela is once again packing up her bag. He can hardly believe it. They’d been telling the _truth._

And then it all comes crashing down, as if the universe is punishing him for having the audacity to hope. 

“I don’t have to tell you that you shouldn’t be penetrated any time soon,” she says flippantly as she organizes her stuff. Her voice is light, as if it doesn’t matter at all that she just signed his death warrant. 

The blood drains out of his face. 

“No – no, I _can_ ,” he blurts, heart racing. “Please, _please_ don’t tell my master. I can still do it, it’s fine, I’ve done it before–”

“Dean, honey –”she says, looking up sharply. 

“ _Please!_ ” 

Her hand is on his arm again and he gulps in a breath, then another, desperate to keep his panic under control so he can fix this, so he won’t be sold back. He’s standing up. He doesn’t remember standing up. Pamela’s eyebrows are drawn together. “Castiel doesn’t want to hurt you.”

He shakes his head, heart in his throat. “No, I _know,_ so I gotta – I gotta be good, and I can be, I swear! I can!”

She lets him back up a step without chasing after him. And she isn’t looking at him. 

Dean feels his world narrow to a pinprick as he takes in the alpha in the doorway, gripping the frame. He takes another stumbling step away from them both, then another, till he’s in the middle of the room. His chest is heaving.

Pamela puts her hands on her hips, a tight frown on her face as she looks at him. “I was just telling Dean that penetration is not a good idea, Castiel.”

His master _immediately_ bristles, rage clear on his face and in his scent, and Dean shrinks back another step so quickly he stumbles. Of _course_ his master is pissed – he bought a sex slave and now he’s being told that he can’t use it, that Dean is broken or off limits somehow. It’s on the cusp of his mouth to protest, to say that he’s been dealing with it for years and he hasn’t died yet, that his mouth and hands are still good if nothing _else_ and they don’t have to hurt him, or immeasurably _worse_ , send him back to another Hell. But the alpha smells so _angry,_ and it’s cloying and terrifying, and Dean backs up a step more, unable to speak even to beg, and the next thing he knows he’s back down on his knees with his hands over his head. 

His master snarls and Dean would probably have wet himself just now if he’d drunk more than a few sips of water this morning. “Jesus, Pam, of _course_ not,” he snaps. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Pamela just puts her hands on her hips, not apologetic in the slightest. Dean may be hallucinating, but he would swear that she steps between them deliberately, putting herself in front of Dean like it means nothing to her to face down the rage of an alpha. “Just want to make things clear,” she insists, staring him in his eyes. Dean still can’t help but cower when his master takes an angry step forward, dropping down to the ground even further, a tight little ball of fear. 

“ _Novak,”_ Pam snaps, and it’s like she flips a switch.

The man’s eyes find Dean and instead of grabbing him up or slapping him or spitting rage and claiming his property like he should, his shoulders slowly fall. He swallows. The aggression in his scent fades to nothing and Dean is almost sick, he’s so confused. 

“Right. I’m – I’m sorry,” the alpha says quietly. “Sorry, Pam. Dean– ”

“I can still do it,” he blurts, and he’s shaking again. He’s so tired of shaking. “Please – _please_. I can be good for you, alpha. However you want me. _Please_.” There are tears gathering in his eyes. He feels weak and so very stupid, feels _pathetic_ because he’d rather this strange new master hit him and punish him and _fuck_ him than send him away. He doesn’t want to leave this place. For the first time in years he might be able to earn some peace, and that has to be worth _something._ “Please.”

His master closes his eyes for a moment, something spasming across his face that Dean doesn’t understand. “I – Dean, you’re not… I don’t expect…” He trails off, something wavering in his voice. “You’re doing just fine. I don’t – _you_ don’t have to worry about that. You aren’t in trouble.” 

The words should reassure him, but they don’t, because he still has no idea if the alpha plans on getting rid of him. He forces himself to stop talking, stop begging. It won’t help him, never has. He takes a shaky breath as his master moves backward and then forward again, rocking between his feet like he’s not sure where to put himself. Then he backs out of the room, and Dean is left there, shaking and pathetic, his hands flat on the cold tile beneath him as he wrestles with the fact that he just _begged_ to be _fucked_. 

Pamela puts a hand on his shoulder, slowly enough that it doesn’t startle him, and squeezes gently. “It’s alright, sweetheart.”

The word is what breaks him. No one has called him that since his mom died. No one in their right _mind_ would think he’s sweet, not now, but he doesn’t hear a lie in the doctor’s voice, and his face crumples like a paper bag. “Oh, honey,” she murmurs, and then he wraps himself in his own arms and sobs.

* * *

Castiel gargles and spits again, trying to avoid eye-contact with his haggard appearance in the mirror. He’d just barely made it to the bathroom. 

Dean had been begging for the unspeakable. Why? Hadn’t Castiel told him that he shouldn’t expect the same treatment here? 

But now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t recall ever specifically reassuring Dean that he isn’t here to be raped. The most basic thing in the world, and he didn’t think to do it. His understanding was that telling Dean he wasn’t going to be punished meant he wasn’t going to be hurt at _all._ Obviously, though, in the omega’s mind, sexual assault doesn’t qualify as punishment. It’s just par for the course. 

Dean’s been living in terror for the last 24 hours and Castiel has done nothing but exacerbate it. He selfishly hopes that Pamela is picking up the pieces in there while he hides. 

He hadn’t been able to stay in that room for one moment longer. Not with Dean looking at him like that, with such abject terror in his eyes, with that sick smell of fear and horror that had wrapped around everyone in the room as the kid pleaded. His alpha instincts, louder than ever before already, had _roared_ at him to scoop Dean up and make him feel safe – but because he’d known that it wouldn’t have helped anything, he’d made himself leave instead. 

In spite of what his instincts insist, he can’t rescue Dean from what he’s afraid of; namely because the omega is afraid of _him._ He’s ashamed of himself, disgusted with his inability to hold his emotions in check. He’s never thought of himself as an unruly alpha male, never had issues like this before. Not till now.

Pamela had made it absolutely clear how abysmal he’d been at controlling his emotion – he hadn’t even known he’d been scaring Dean, he’d been so angry. But she’d pulled him out of the room and hissed at him in no uncertain terms that he was being a _knot-headed jackass_ and needed to _cool it,_ accusations he’s never once in his life needed to hear. He’d scared Dean so many times in the last hour alone that he’s not sure how anyone could think he’s the right person for this. How Pam even allowed him back into that room at all.

Maybe they thought he could handle it because of his normal state of being. He’s been accused of being robotic and emotionless and even cold, before now, often looked down on for his lack of the stereotypical alpha passion. So if this is what that passion feels like, he’d rather do without. It’s like there’s some unrecognizable predator snapping and snarling inside of him, and he _hates_ it. It’s the exact opposite of what the omega he’s been charged with caring for needs.

Still, it feels wrong to be hiding in the bathroom while he can hear the muffled sounds of Dean crying even now. The omega’s distress is making his throat close, he hates it so much, and he puts a palm over his nose and mouth and tries to find his center. 

Dean had been a runaway, a _fighter,_ for the first half of his enslavement. Castiel can’t imagine what must have been done to him in Hell for him to beg to be raped. Whatever alternative punishment he’s imagining must be truly terrible, and he must be truly terrified of _Castiel_ to try and use his own body as leverage for protection _._

It’s a long time before the scent of Dean’s distress fades back to something approaching normal – normal for Dean, anyway. When it does, he steps out of the bathroom and leans against the wall for a moment, breathing slowly. It won’t help Dean if he’s all worked up – his alpha pheromones will only stress him out more, as Pam had not-so-kindly reminded him. He’s determined to stop scaring the omega with knee-jerk reactions that he _knows_ he can control better. 

When he finally drags his pathetic self back into the living room, he swallows at what he sees, shame kicking him in the ribs. Dean is wrapped in a blanket, bundled up on the couch. His eyes are red and he looks tired, even more tired than he’d been yesterday, and that’s _his_ fault. 

And he’s supposed to be helping the man. Ha. 

Pamela is sitting next to him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. She looks up at Castiel and he’s relieved to see that she doesn’t look accusatory. Only weary. 

“Sorry, alpha.”

Dean is staring down at his lap as he speaks, voice so rough and quiet that Castiel has trouble hearing him. The bags under his eyes are dark as bruises. “For freaking out like that, I mean. Won’t happen again. Promise.”

Castiel opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. It’s so damn wrong for Dean to be apologizing that he has no idea where to begin. No idea how to explain to the man that there’s no one here at fault except for Castiel himself. 

“Dean…”

The omega looks at him. Or, near him – at his chest, he thinks. Dean hasn’t looked him in the eye even once. He chews on the inside of his cheek and decides to sit down, perching on the edge of the armchair diagonal to the couch. 

“I am not upset with you,” he starts with, and he swears that Dean relaxes at that, his shoulders slumping minutely. “You will never be in trouble for expressing how you feel.”

Dean stares at him. “But…”

There’s nothing else, so Castiel pushes gently. “You have been through quite a lot. It’s natural for things to be overwhelming for you, and I can’t possibly begrudge you your emotions.” He rubs a hand against his chin. “I just want you to be healthy, both physically and emotionally.”

Dean’s brow furrows at that, and it breaks Castiel’s heart. 

Pam gives the kid’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ve got to get going,” she says, gathering her bag from the floor as she goes. “Remember what I said, Dean.”

Dean nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“None of that. I’m not old enough to be a ma’am,” she jokes, smiling at him, but when she turns to Castiel it’s with a grim look. He stands and follows her, taking the hint. 

When they get to the door, she hugs him, and he’s too surprised that he’s not being screamed at that he can’t do anything but wrap his arms around her and hug back. She breathes deeply, steadying herself, and then pulls away. 

He’s shocked to see a shine in her eyes. Pamela has seen a lot, in her line of work, and though she is unfailingly kind and gentle she’s naturally grown calluses that protect her. It’s not often that Castiel has seen her this affected. 

“I gave him my card,” she says finally, her voice a little rough. “Make him keep it if he tries to give it to you. Get the kid a phone, please – and for God’s sake, set him up with Benny ASAP. He’s ten kinds of messed up in the head from everything that’s happened to him.”

Castiel’s throat is tight. “Okay. Thank you for… you know. Thank you.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me. It’s my job.”

“I’m sorry that I… I know you were just trying to reassure him. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that, it was…” He swallows. “Unprofessional, to say the least.”

She shakes her head again, squeezing his shoulder. “Should’a warned you, Novak. I know you’d never do that, but I thought he needed to hear it. It didn’t really have the effect I was going for, though.” She looks around his home with tired eyes. “Not used to this kind of set-up. Normally when I tell newbies that, they’re relieved.”

After a moment, she sighs, tapping the strap of the worn leather doctor’s bag on her shoulder absently. “I’ll come back in a week or so to check up on everything – eventually I’ll look into getting the kid on heat suppressants, too. He’s way too underweight and too scared to be able to handle them right now, but that will change eventually.” She rubs her hand over her mouth, something haunted in her eyes. “Castiel, he’s… they did things to that kid that I can’t even…”

He rests a hand on her shoulder, awkwardly giving the comfort he can. “Those bastards _,_ ” she spits, shaking her head, “were beyond cruel. He’s only 128 _pounds…”_ Her gaze hardens. “Those bruises on his nape… _That_ certainly happened more than once. I can only imagine what he’s been through.” Castiel shudders, and Pam squeezes his shoulder in a mirror of his comforting gesture. “It’s going to be difficult.”

He grimaces. “Still sure I’m cut out for this?”

She gives him a hard look. “Yes. You _are_ , Castiel,” she insists when he shakes his head, grabbing his wrist. “You’re exactly what that kid needs – neither of you know it yet, but you are.”

He doesn’t think so. He thinks Dean would be far better off at the campus, with trained betas and omegas that would be able to help him through his journey to freedom with actual expertise and astronomically less fear. But that isn’t an option right now, so instead, he decides to accept her wisdom and stop looking for an out. He breathes out. “Okay.”

The door shuts behind her with a solemn kind of finality, and his hand lingers on the knob for a while. This is going to be one hell of a conversation, and he’s not sure he’s ready or if he’ll ever _be_ ready. 

He almost chickens out. 

Then, he thinks about Dean, his eyes wide and frightened, frantically insisting that he can be _good_ and _useful_ – and he finds his courage. 

Dean is back on the ground when he returns to the living room, blanket folded neatly on the couch in his place. Castiel hesitates for a moment, waiting in the doorway where Dean cannot see him, still trying to figure out what it is that he can say to convince the young man in front of him that he means him no harm – and, in the meantime, he witnesses more than he should.

Swaying in exhaustion as he kneels, Dean nearly topples over and touches his hands to the carpet to steady himself. When he realizes what he’s doing, he snatches them back, and they flutter around his body for a moment like he can’t decide where to put them. Eventually, shaking as he does so, he grips his arms behind his back like he’s done a few times before now. 

Numb, Castiel watches as he spreads his knees a little further, leans forward to keep his balance in a movement that looks well practiced, and takes a deep breath. 

And then freezes, having picked up on Castiel’s scent. 

“Please don’t put your arms behind your back, Dean. That can’t be comfortable,” he says awkwardly instead of a greeting, well aware that his very presence terrifies the young man in front of him. He can see Dean’s throat bob as he swallows, but after a moment, he drops his hands from the small of his back. He’s already shaking again. 

Castiel wants to tell him to sit on the couch, but he’s not sure how that will go over. Pamela had done it, obviously, or Dean wouldn’t have sat there, but it’s telling that he’s back on the ground now. Telling that he keeps cinching his hands behind him like the shackles are still there.

He sighs. Rubs his eyes. When he sits down on the sofa, he puts his head in his hands for a moment, trying to parse out how exactly to convince Dean that he isn’t going to be raped when the man can’t even understand he doesn’t have to _kneel_. 

When he opens his eyes again, Dean is on the floor right in front of him. 

He jerks back and Dean flinches, eyes down. His scent is sharp and scared. “Dean?”

“I can be good,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “Just – give me a chance. I can do it. I can make you feel good, alpha, please. Please let me t-try. I know you c-can’t use me right, but _please_ , let me try.” His hand reaches up, edging toward his belt buckle, and – 

_Shit_. 

Nausea rolls in his stomach and he stands up abruptly, so quickly that Dean tumbles back and lands on his ass, staring up at him with wide eyes. His scent spikes and intensifies and Castiel takes a beat to calm himself down before he gives the omega a heart attack.

“Dean. Could you – um.” He struggles to get himself together, well aware that Dean probably thinks that he’s about to get beat. “Could you go and sit in the kitchen? At the table. In a chair,” he tags on stupidly, just wanting to put some distance between them so they can both calm down. Dean scrambles up to do what he’s told and is gone in a heartbeat. 

He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to ignore how badly he wants to puke. This is the second time that Dean has tried to do something like that, tried to offer himself in the only way he thinks Castiel wants him. The first time, Castiel thinks he was doing it automatically, too tired and too bewildered to default to any other behavior. 

This time, though, Dean was clearly terrified. _Clearly_ unwilling. But he did it anyway, because he’s that scared of losing the safety that Castiel has promised him. The very same man that had run and fought for years to get away from people who wanted to take advantage of him is now offering himself up like a meal because he’s desperate to stay in Castiel’s good graces. 

The sheer degree of power he holds over Dean hits him, then, with a wave of nausea to match. 

When he draws up the courage to follow Dean into the kitchen, he starts to pull out the chair across from him. But the omega is perched on the edge of his seat like it’s going to bite him, back ram-rod straight, hands gripping the edges. His eyes are glazed, face pale, and when he looks up at Castiel it’s like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“You know what? Actually, let’s just…”

He settles himself on the ground with little preamble, crossing his legs and leaning against the cabinets. Dean stares down at him for half a second before he’s scrabbling to his knees, hunched low so he’s beneath Castiel even now. He’s mouse-small. Castiel’s heart hurts.

“I need to make some things clear,” he starts, and Dean’s hands twitch where they’re laid flat on the ground. “But first, I need to ask you something. Is that alright?”

Dean quickly nods. He’s still not looking at him. 

“What are your expectations of me?”

It’s not an easy question, but he asks it anyway. He has to start _somewhere,_ and he figures that the best place is wherever Dean’s head is. How else is he supposed to know what Dean thinks is in store for him? How else is he supposed to reassure him that it’s _not?_

There’s a long pause while he waits for an answer. “I – I’m sorry, but – what do you mean, alpha?” Dean asks, the edge of panic in his voice sharpening a little with his confusion. 

“I mean… what do you think that I expect of you?”

Dean bites his lip. “Um. That I’m… good?”

“And what would that look like?”

He can see Dean struggling, his mouth twisting into a little line. “Do what I’m t-told. And, um. Give you…” He trails off, struggling. “Be a good omega. Be useful? Make you f-feel good. Be yours to – to use,” he chokes out, and it sounds like he’s parroting someone else’s words. 

Castiel is horrified, to put it lightly. “ _No_ ,” he blurts, and Dean flinches, cowers lower to the ground than he already is. “I mean – that’s not what you’re here for. Not that. None of that.”

Dean’s voice wavers as he pleads. “I’m sorry _._ I don’t _know._ But I wanna try. _Please_ let me try before you – before you punish me, ‘cause I _can’t–_ I don’t–”

“Oh, Dean,” he interrupts gently. “Oh, no. No. You don’t have to do anything like that to protect yourself. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Dean sits there, frozen for a long time, before he draws in a tight breath. “I don’t understand,” he blurts, and his voice is small and afraid. “I… I’m not acting right.” 

Castiel bites back a sigh. “Can you look at me?”

He does, making eye contact for the briefest of flashes before he drops his gaze to Castiel’s chin. His eyes are red and watery. Mouth trembling in exhaustion. 

“You’re doing so well right now, Dean. I know this is difficult. Thank you,” he murmurs, and Dean visibly shudders with relief. Castiel’s stomach twists. “I’m not going to punish you for anything you’ve done today.” Or anything he will ever do, but clearly Dean’s ability to believe those words is severely limited. 

Dean sags into himself like a popped balloon. “Thank you,” the omega whispers. “I know I made you angry. Thank you.”

“I wasn’t angry with _you_ ,” he says carefully. The omega looks back up at him blankly. “I was angry with Pamela for implying that I would want to hurt you. Angry that other people _have_ hurt you.”

“But…” Dean swallows, and Castiel thinks he didn’t understand most of what he said just now, because it doesn’t align with his expectations at all. “But I was… I didn’t do what you asked.” His fists clench. “I was bad, and bad slaves get… they get…”

Castiel’s heart twists up in his chest. “You weren’t _bad_ , Dean. You’re just scared. It’s not the same thing.”

Dean’s expression says that he very much disagrees, and a flash of fury sparks like lightning inside of him as he thinks about the men who have put that look on the omega’s face. He tamps it down quickly before Dean can smell it and think it’s directed at him – they don’t need an encore of what happened just a few minutes ago. 

He takes a deep breath. “You have nothing to fear from me. I do _not_ want anything sexual from you,” he says, as emphatic as he is awkward, but Dean doesn’t relax any more than he already has. He doesn’t seem to register what Castiel just said, and that worries him. “You’re not going to be hurt. Not here.”

“But… what about when I mess up?” Dean asks, and his voice is choked with misery.

“Mess up how?”

The omega winces. “I…. I don’t know. I messed up a lot, before. All the time.” His back is hunched, taut, and his spine is prominent against the fabric of his shirt. And all Castiel can think about are the crisscrossed crimson and white lines he’d seen on Dean’s lower back, a hundred awful badges for all the bravery the young man has been forced to show. He wants to argue, wants to tell Dean that _nothing_ he could have done would justify the things that have happened to him, but he can’t. Dean is not going to believe him anytime soon. 

And so, finally giving in to an instinct that he cannot name or understand, he leans forward and places a careful hand on the sharply empty space between Dean’s shoulder blades.

He’s careful to keep his palm well below the part of his neck the omega has instinctively covered several times, and he leaves his hand in place there even when Dean flinches, even when his hands snap up to protect his nape. Even when he bows so low that his forehead touches the tile.

He just doesn’t know what else to _do._

Concentrating, he sends out as many _breathe, relax, safe_ signals as he can, hoping that he’s doing it right. He’s never manipulated his scent like this before, not on purpose, and he’s painfully unsure that it will work. Unsure that he’s even alpha enough to do this at all.

Dean freezes under his hand, his eyes closed tight, his mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly expecting the gentle touch to become painful at any moment. But Castiel rubs his thumb into the younger man’s spine slowly and evenly, matching his breath to the rhythm to coax Dean to do the same, hoping that he’s not making things worse. 

At first, he thinks that he might be. Dean is stiff beneath his touch, as still as rigor mortis under him. But as time passes, the omega’s breathing slows from the quick, shallow pants it had been before to something a little deeper and more even, and he begins to shudder and then, just as slowly, stops. 

And then, all at once, Dean’s strength fails him – he slumps, cheek pressed into the cold tile as he curls up right there on the ground next to Castiel’s legs, hands limp around his neck.

Frozen for a moment, stunned, Castiel can only watch as Dean takes in breath after shuddering breath, his knees curled into his chest, the soles of his feet perched against the leg of the looming wooden dinner table above them. The omega’s eyes are firmly closed, his mouth a thin, shaking line, and Castiel can smell that he’s still afraid – but the scent is, somehow, dissipating. So he keeps going – keeps stroking him, keeps his touch even and firm. He can see, with no small measure of relief, that tension is seeping out of the omega at a steady rate, can feel his breathing slow under his arm, now draped over Dean’s ribs to reach his back.

Before long Dean is nothing but a puddle of limp muscle and soft, even breaths, and when he opens his eyes they’re glazed. 

He’s _high_ , Castiel realizes. High on pheromones. Outside of heats and ruts, this sort of state is rare – but he supposes that Dean is scared enough and malnourished enough and _exhausted_ enough that the higher functions of his brain are starting to shut down. He’s undoubtedly more sensitive to hormonal suggestions in this state, less able to fight against a very natural biological reaction when he’s been pushed to the limits of what a human can endure. 

After minutes of gentle touch and steady breath, Dean’s hands finally drop from his neck, curling into loose fists behind his head instead. If he wants Dean to actually _hear_ him he’s going to have to speak now, he thinks, so he does. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dean,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to do that to you.”

Dean shudders, and Castiel hopes that means he understands. But his next words, soft and dazed, confirm that he doesn’t.

“Dunno what’chu want, though,” Dean finally slurs. He’s staring at nothing with wide dark pupils and slow tears on his face, gone on pheromones that Castiel can barely understand himself. “Dunno how to act right. ‘M sorry. Jus’ wanna be good.”

Castiel has to look away so that the omega can’t see him blink back tears. “You _are_ good, Dean. You’re safe.”

There’s a long sigh. And then Dean is asleep. 

Castiel had known, on some level, that alphas were supposed to be able to calm omegas on at least a superficial basis based on their scent. But he’s certainly never done anything like this before, and he hadn’t been at all sure that it would work on Dean. Not with what he’s been through. He has no idea when or even _if_ Dean has ever experienced this sort of treatment from an alpha. This may very well be the first time that he’s felt this sort of primal safety in his life, and the thought makes him ache like someone is reaching inside of him and twisting. 

Guilty, he pulls his hand away from Dean’s warm back, breaking the connection of their touch despite the feral little voice inside of him growling at him to do no such thing. It feels wrong to have done this to the man – to have reduced him to this. But he also knows, logically, that Dean desperately needs the rest. He bites his lip and then, before he can think better of it, crouches down and scoops his limp, sharp body into his arms.

He can’t in good conscience leave him on the hard tile, after all. 

Praying that Dean won’t wake, he pauses when he’s able to get to his feet, holding his breath as he waits for Dean to stir or protest. He needn't have worried – Dean is basically unconscious. The omega is light, lighter than Castiel thought possible for a grown man, and it makes that same fury rise in his chest again as he thinks about the cruelty Dean has faced over the years. Cradling his head against his heart as he climbs the stairs, he moves slowly, his grip careful as he thinks about the bruises and the whip marks littering his skin.

The last thing he wants to do is hurt him again. 

The quilt is missing, and he stares at the room for a moment before he sees it peeking out from behind the bed. Castiel is pretty sure that Dean slept on the rug last night, too scared to trust his offer of the bed for reasons he can easily guess at. He sets Dean on the mattress gently and tucks the blanket around him, and then adds another, hoping the added security will make him feel less… hunted. 

He pauses in the doorway, something burning in the back of his throat when he takes in Dean’s too-small body under the covers.

It’s only three in the afternoon, but he turns off the lights and shuts the door softly anyway, hoping that Dean will sleep through the night. 

He needs it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the morning after. Hope y'all enjoy, even though it's a little bit of a filler!

Dean wakes up naturally and slowly for the first time in a very long time. 

Things filter in dimly. The room is quiet, the birds outside are loud. There’s sunlight creeping in through the window – the pale, golden kind that signifies dawn. He blinks at it dazedly, eyes unfocused. 

He must not actually be awake. This is a dream. It’s kind of odd, because when he dreams it’s almost always memories of his childhood home back in Kansas, of summer, of _Sammy._ This is nice, though, so he isn’t going to start complaining. He is warm. The bed is soft. 

The _bed._

He’s on the bed, and then he isn’t, scrambling to his knees on the floor with his head bowed low, heart in his mouth. 

He waits, and he trembles. But there is no sound of another man’s breathing in the room, there’s no tug of chains at his wrists or collar, no acrid scent or tell-tale soreness that would prove he’d been used. He’s been in a bed all night, and no one has touched him. 

He can’t feel the cold, heavy chain brushing the back of his neck, and that’s strange enough that he takes stock, and remembers. He’s not in Hell.

Letting loose a shaky breath, he rocks backward till he’s sitting with his feet on the floor, his back pressed against the warm wooden bedframe behind him. Reaching up to snag the quilt, he slowly wraps it around his shoulders and stares through the wall in front of him. It’s early – he can tell by the pale light coming in through the large window that the sun has only just risen.

When his heart slows back to a normal rhythm, he can finally close his eyes without feeling like something is going to reach out and grab him if he does. Hugging his knees to his chest, he thinks back to yesterday, to the feeling of Castiel’s hand on his back, to the wash of soothing scents he’d sent out along with his soothing words. 

He doesn’t know if it was due to stupidity or weakness, but for once, he hadn’t been scared.

Well, no. That’s not right. He _had_ been scared – terrified, actually – of how his master would hurt him, of how he would be punished for his behavior with the doctor, of what the alpha might do with a sex slave he’d been told not to have sex with. Dean has not felt calm around an alpha since the day he left home, and for good reason – deceptively gentle touches will always hurt eventually. But he hadn’t fought the man’s touch, hadn’t growled or even tried to move away. He’d just… let it happen. 

He’d be kicking himself for his stupidity and weakness right now, except… the alpha hadn’t actually _done_ anything. Nothing at all, other than calm him down with some sort of freaky alpha-omega biology shit Dean doesn’t understand. Something none of the alphas he’s met before have ever done, or tried to do, because what they wanted was always taken by force. Dean hadn’t even known that they _could_ do that – he’d thought they only sent out scents by accident, smells that gave away their rage or their lust and told Dean he needed to brace for impact. But Castiel’s scent had whispered _safe, safe, safe,_ and Dean had, for reasons he doesn’t understand, believed it – at least long enough for him to _finally_ go to sleep.

He can still smell Castiel on his clothes, if he concentrates. It’s distinctly alpha, of course – all alphas’ scents are similar, in a way. But there is no tang of lust or rage in it, no bitter aftertaste of sadistic glee, no musk at all. He slowly puts his nose to his shirt and inhales and actually feels himself calm down, feels something primal in his brain unclench and relax at the faint smell stitched into the fabric. And it feels so fucking good to be calm for _once_ that he doesn’t try and dredge up the energy to be ashamed of himself.

Castiel had _carried him to bed_ and left him alone to rest. Normally, he'd assume he’d been drugged – but he knows what it’s like to wake up after that. He’d be puking his guts up right now or his head would be pounding, or both. And if the alpha had touched his nape, he thinks he would remember at least the initial contact; instead, he remembers very clearly that Castiel took care not to touch him there at _all._

So no, Castiel hadn’t artificially _made_ him sleep. He’d just allowed him to. Took away his fear in what may be the gentlest way Dean has ever experienced. 

And he’d _tucked Dean in._ Without hurting him at all, or even undressing him. 

He presses his hands to his eyes and shakily exhales. 

He’s so tired of his fear. Fear makes him stupid. Fear makes him consider bolting out into the snow to escape a man that has not hurt him, fear makes him tell a doctor _no,_ fear makes him spill things and ruin things and piss off the person who holds his life in his hands. He wishes he could snatch the terror from himself and throw it away, because it has never helped him. 

And – dare he say it – it’s possible, just _maybe,_ that his fear has never been more useless to him than it is now. Because by far the most confusing thing about all of this boils down to one single solitary fact: His master has not hurt him at all. 

The fact ricochets around in his head like a pinball, dinging here and there and setting off flashing lights. Castiel _has not hurt him_ , even though he has every right. He could have with no provocation anyway, but Dean has also fucked up royally. His behavior over the last couple days – _any_ of it – would have been enough to get him whipped in Hell. Yet the alpha has done nothing but cook for him and soothe his fear whenever he can, he has _apologized_ to him, he has looked at him with something other than lust or disgust or hatred and had even been angry and _hadn’t_ taken that anger out on him, somehow – 

And. Castiel doesn’t even want to _fuck_ him, apparently. That’s what he’d claimed. What Pamela had claimed, too.

The thought sort of terrifies him. It should be the best news of his life, if he believes it. But the truth is that he’s not capable of much else that will make him worth keeping around. 

Once upon a time, Dean was going to be a mechanic, was going to go to school and open up his own shop. Once upon a time, Dean was a provider. Once upon a time, he was useful, resourceful, and willingly sacrificed his happiness and his schooling and his health for his family, did anything and _everything_ for Sam – 

He stops himself with a shake of his head, scared to open that box in his mind. He’s afraid of what’s in there. And he’s _terrified_ of what isn’t – what he’s forgotten. 

He isn’t a kid anymore, and he isn’t fit to take care of anyone. He’s just a tiny little fraction of a person that is, first and foremost, someone else’s property; a plaything that is meant only for the enjoyment of its owner. When his owner _doesn’t_ enjoy him anymore, he gets thrown away like a cheap, broken toy, and then gets picked up and screwed back together in some fresh and horrible way by a new master with even lower standards than the one before. 

Except… his newest owner doesn't seem to want to play with him at all. He doesn’t have a goddamn clue what Castel wants. 

That’s a dangerous thing, for a slave. 

Rising to his feet, unsteady and sore but feeling better and more well-rested than he has in a long while, he finds his way to the upstairs bathroom. Castiel had told him to use it whenever he needed, and the stale fear stench and dried tears on him make him feel dirty inside and out.

When he turns the water over to warm he trembles in spite of himself, and he can’t help but hug his arms to his chest as he stands in the spray, waiting for a punishment that isn’t, apparently, supposed to come. 

He towels himself dry and dresses his wounds and takes his medicine like he’s been told. It’s all laid out on the counter for him, so Castiel obviously wants him to do as the doctor ordered. He applies the numbing cream to what he can reach after a long bout of hesitation, something tightening in his throat when the pain fades to the background, his fingertips tingling. The lack of the now-familiar ache on his nape leaves him feeling strangely adrift.

He dresses in the same clothes that Castiel touched and inhales his scent, still confused when it doesn’t make his stomach clench. And, remembering the alpha’s words from yesterday, he drinks water out of the sink with his hands and wonders if he’s going to get in trouble for forgetting the cup. 

He goes back to his room, because he’s not really sure if he’s allowed to leave. The only reason he had yesterday was because he had to pee so bad – he’d been terrified the whole time that Castiel would backhand him for leaving the place where he’d been put. 

But, of course, he hadn’t. He hadn’t had anything for Dean to do downstairs either, though, so he probably shouldn’t go without permission. He thinks. It’s possible that he’s expected to go down and wait in the kitchen like he had yesterday, but he doesn’t _know._ Castiel hasn’t given him any orders.

His head is beginning to pound. All these decisions he’s having to make are making him uneasy. In Hell, it had been explicitly clear what he was supposed to do at all times. He _hadn’t_ always done that, but at least he’d known when he was breaking the rules. Had known when there would be consequences. It didn’t matter that some of the rules were impossible to follow – there had been a sick kind of security in knowing what was coming, even if it was gonna hurt. But now he doesn’t even have that.

In the end, he’s too chicken-shit to go downstairs. Honestly, he kind of just wants to go back to sleep – despite being in bed for a day and a half, he’s still exhausted. Panic attacks, he’s learned, will do that to him, especially when they follow days of no sleep at all. 

He looks at the bed for a long time before he takes the blanket off of it and clutches it in his hand. Apparently he really _is_ allowed to sleep in it – Castiel had put him there, after all – but he doesn’t really want to get back in it himself. Doesn’t want to examine the squirming in his gut when he looks at the rumpled sheets. 

The windowsill is painted white and covered with a long, soft cushion. It’s wide enough that he can curl up there comfortably, and he does so, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. He leans his temple on the cool window and closes his eyes.

What Castiel wants from him is still a mystery. Dean’s willing, whatever it is – he admits that freely to himself. Forget whatever’s left of his dignity, forget fighting. Fuck that. He just wants to go a month, a week, a _day_ without getting hit or whipped or savagely fucked by an alpha that either doesn’t care about his pain or gets off on it. But he doesn’t know what he’s here for, simply because slaves don’t _need_ to know. They only need to do what they’re told. 

He watches his breath fog up the glass with hooded eyes. It’s started to snow again, light, fluffy flurries drifting past the window outside. For once, that doesn’t fill him with dread. His master doesn’t seem inclined to kick him into the cold as punishment, not like Alastair. He doesn’t know that for sure, of course, but strangely enough Dean doesn’t think this new alpha would get the kick out of it that his old one did. 

Tucking his chin closer to his chest, he inhales and closes his eyes. His master’s scent washes over him again, warm and soothing. His shoulders relax. 

He doesn’t understand what that _means._ People communicate through scents like this all the time, mostly by accident. Hell had always smelled of _terror run lust rage,_ auction houses like _fear_ and _hopelessness._ Training facilities like _dread_ and _sorry_ and _submit submit SUBMIT._

But Castiel’s scent doesn’t smell like any of that, nor does his home. It just smells… normal. Comfortable. His own aside, there’s been no repeated, strong emotion from anyone here, far as he can tell. Even the alpha’s rage from the day before has faded away into nothing, as brief and bright as a flashbang – nothing like the smoldering, lingering fury of the alphas that he’s come to know.

He doesn’t know he’s fallen asleep until the heavy footfalls on the stairs wake him up. His eyes spring open, and he scrambles to his feet, tossing the blanket back onto the bed with a nervous look. 

Debating with himself for half a second, he decides he should open the door. He does so and drops to his knees before his master even makes it up the stairs, praying that this is what he’s supposed to do. 

Castiel sounds sort of surprised when he sees him. “Oh. Good morning, Dean. How long have you been awake?”

With a nervous look at the clock, Dean clears his throat. He stares down at his master’s shoes when he answers. “Uh. A couple of hours, alpha.”

“May I ask why you didn’t come down for breakfast?”

Fuck. Wrong choice, then. He ducks a little further, bracing himself. “I didn’t know I was supposed to. Sorry.”

His master doesn’t really sound angry with him, though. “That’s alright. Would you like to join me now?”

Dean’s brain struggles to make sense of _that’s alright_ as he scrambles to his feet and follows Castiel down the stairs. The alpha doesn’t look back, confident that he’s following behind. He resolves for the hundredth time that he’s going to do _exactly_ what his master wants him to, because he’s really enjoying this whole “not getting hit” thing. 

But then, of course, his hunger and weakness catch up with him, and a wave of vertigo makes him stumble a little on a step – and he knocks right into Castiel on his way down. 

He shrinks back, tries to make himself small, but it’s hard to kneel on the stairs and his master is a few steps ahead of him, so right now he’s much taller than the alpha. He crouches so he’s below him, panic raking up his chest with needle-sharp claws. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“I’d imagine your blood sugar is low,” the alpha says, skipping right over the part where Dean touched him without permission and how that warrants at _least_ a backhand. He looks down at Dean without even a hint of anger in his eyes. “You did miss a few meals yesterday when you fell asleep, so that makes sense.”

Shit. He’s supposed to be eating more, and he’s already failed miserably. How will his master punish him for that? He has no idea what he’ll default to – maybe a whip? He hasn’t seen one, but that doesn’t mean anything. He swallows.

“That isn’t your fault, Dean,” his master says, interrupting his quickly mounting panic. His voice is measured and calm. “I’m not sure you could have stayed awake if you tried. How many days have you gone without sleeping properly?”

Dean stares at him. Opens his mouth to respond automatically, and then remembers that he lied to the alpha on his first morning here and told him that he’d slept when in reality he’d tossed and turned for most of the night. God, he’s just digging this pit deeper and deeper, isn’t he?

His heart pounds. Lie, or fess up? Which will be worse? The alpha waits patiently, his face unreadable. 

“Five,” he finally croaks. 

Castiel doesn’t call him on his lie from earlier. Maybe he forgot? But he does frown. “You hadn’t slept in five days?”

“I mean – I, uh, I dozed. But not for long, really. I tried, but – ” He swallows, stops himself from giving excuses. Castiel doesn’t care about his anxiety, doesn’t care about the sick terror that had kept him awake through the night at the auction house, the surety that his master was on his way to retrieve him and blame him and _punish_ him for everything that had happened. Then, as the days had passed and the likelihood of Alastair coming for him had decreased, the dread of what new horrible thing was next had kept him up just the same. 

His master doesn't care. Slaves don't get to make excuses. 

The alpha studies him. He drops his gaze, waiting for judgment. But all Castiel says is, “Did you at least sleep well last night?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, eager to move away from the topic of his insomnia and all the pitfalls that come with it. “I mean, yes, alpha. I… I did. Thank you,” he adds. He realizes, belatedly, that it’s genuine gratitude that motivates him to speak, not fear, and that feels…

Castiel abruptly seems to realize that they’ve stopped in the middle of the stairs and starts moving again. “I’m glad I was able to help,” he says, and he turns away and that’s the end of the conversation. 

No punishment. Not even a verbal reprimand. Dean feels dizzy and he’s not sure it’s solely from his hunger.

The kitchen smells amazing when they get there, and Dean resists the urge to peek at what’s cooking on the stove before he slides down to his knees next to his master’s chair. The tile is cool and soothing on his shins, something familiar after whatever the hell just happened. He waits to be told to do something, waits for orders. 

They don’t come. Castiel just fills up two plates and two cups and gives Dean his portion of… biscuits and jelly, he thinks. Again, it’s the same as his master’s. Not smaller – hell, it might even be a little bigger. All this food and he hasn’t had to do a damn thing to earn it. 

“You may eat, Dean,” Castiel permits lightly when he doesn’t start into it right away. 

Dean _tries_ not to scarf it down, but he probably looks like a starving dog. It may be the best thing he’s ever tasted. The twisting in his gut fades as he empties the plate – he hadn’t even known it was there till it was gone. He’s gone hungry too often, he guesses, to still notice those pangs. 

Castiel lets them eat in silence. The only sound he makes is the occasional rustle of the newspaper in his hands as he turns the page. Dean finishes his food way before him, despite his efforts not to, and sits there with his empty plate in his lap for a while before his master notices. 

He glances down at Dean and a pleased expression crosses his face. “Would you like some more?”

Dean hesitates. This had always been a trick question before. Of course he usually wanted more, but there was inevitably a cost to it. 

Castiel, though, has said he’s expected to eat. Said he wouldn’t have to earn it. So, slowly, he nods. If nothing else, he can figure out if the man means it. 

His master stands and dips down to take his plate, ignoring Dean’s automatic flinch backward. He swallows, watching the dark-haired man place another biscuit onto his plate, spreading bright purple jam over the top from a glass jar that he carefully places back into the fridge afterward. It feels strange to be served. Maybe Castiel doesn’t trust him to touch the food? Either way, he ends up with another portion of breakfast, and the alpha says nothing as he returns to his chair and resumes slowly eating. 

Dean hardly tastes the first bite – he crams it in and swallows it down and it feels like cement dropping into his stomach. Then he waits, watching the alpha out of the corner of his eye. 

Castiel doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s not paying any attention to Dean, actually, and that’s a fucking relief. Letting out a small sigh, Dean eats a little more. His master doesn’t seem to register that Dean expects him to snatch the plate away, to kick it out of his hands. To demand payment for being so generous. 

So he’s able to eat two portions of a meal made for human beings in peace. It’s a far cry from the bowls of tasteless mush he’d had to work to earn in Hell. Castiel even raises an eyebrow when he finishes the second plate, as if he’s asking Dean if he wants more, and for once Dean is full enough to have the luxury of turning down food – so he shakes his head, gratitude making him ache. Suddenly, he finds he isn’t all that worried that the alpha will starve him, isn’t worried that he should be cramming down as much as he can now to make up for missed meals later. And that might be – probably _is_ – foolish, but he feels it all the same.

When they’re both done, Castiel takes their plates to the sink and then looks down at Dean. Hope mixed with trepidation sparks in him – surely _now_ his master has something he wants. Now he’ll give Dean some clear orders to follow. 

“I have some work that I need to catch up on in my office. You’re welcome to keep me company, or you can go back to your room and rest. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

Dean stares at him for a beat, and damn if he isn’t fucking _disappointed,_ somehow, that he’s not being told what to do. More choices, instead of orders. He hasn’t had to make this many decisions in years. The mental gymnastics are exhausting – should he put himself out of sight and mind? Should he be attentive to Castiel’s needs, like he’d been trained to do so long ago? Which does the alpha want? Which is safer? Which will keep him here, away from another training center or whorehouse like Hell?

He realizes that he’s been silent for way too long, and clears his throat. He’s gambling, but he figures that Cas might want him within earshot when he _does_ finally decide to give him an order. “Um. I’ll stay with you, if that’s okay.”

Castiel gives him a small smile, and Dean lets out a breath because that was clearly the right choice. 

He follows the alpha into his office, takes in the plush rug and the large desk that the man’s computer rests on. Like every other part of the house that he’s seen, it’s luxurious, all dark woods and thick carpets and old glass light fixtures. 

Clearly, it’s the home of someone who can afford a slave much better than him. 

Castiel pulls out his desk chair and settles into it comfortably, and Dean’s left standing there, confused as to where he’s supposed to be again. Castiel doesn’t seem to want him under the table when they’re in the kitchen, so he probably won’t want him under the desk either, even though what’s left of Dean’s training tells him that’s where he should be. He decides to kneel down next to the desk instead, slowly settling in, watching his master out of the corner of his eye with his breath held as he waits for a reprimand. 

It doesn’t come. Castiel just turns on his computer and gets straight to it. The click-clack of the keyboard and his own breathing are the only sounds in the room. 

Eventually, he starts to relax. He leans against the side of the desk, resting his temple on it, as out of proper position as he’ll allow himself to get. He can just barely see Castiel’s legs from here, and it’s a relief to be out of the man’s direct line of sight even if he’s still very close to him. 

Dean has to wonder what the alpha does for a living, and if his job has been interrupted for Dean’s sake. He doubts it, but something nags at him. His master is wearing a tie and nice shoes in his own house, which is frankly weird as hell – it feels like Castiel dressed to go to work, and then remembered he was staying home. Dean’s not sure how to feel about that. He feels a flicker of curiosity at the mystery in front of him, extinguished like a snapped-closed zippo the moment he thinks about asking a question and all the consequences that usually follow. 

This close, he can smell the alpha clearly, and even though that should do nothing but make him afraid it actually sort of calms him down. No matter how hard he searches, he cannot find a single sour note in the man’s smell, just like last night. 

No alpha has ever smelled pleasant to him before – no one but Sam. They’ve always been sickening – kerosine, gasoline, melted plastic, sulfur. Fetid, rotting. Cloying and terrifying and always _too much._

Castiel smells… comforting. Sweet and grounding, almost _familiar_ , like a favorite shirt or a claimed spot on the couch. It's hard to nail down, strange that it feels like a memory when Dean knows he’s never met this man before. But it feels like something missing has been returned to him when he catches the alpha’s scent. When he breathes in, he thinks of summer rain, of coffee on the porch in the morning, and of a warm, gentle touch. 

Belatedly, he wonders what Castiel must think of _his_ scent – he’s pretty sure it’s been nothing but disgusting the whole time he’s been here. It can’t be pleasant for him. Sometimes Dean is scared enough to smell _himself_ , so he knows Castiel is getting the worst of it. 

Alphas before him had taken savage, brutal pleasure in the scent of his fear, but all it ever seems to do is distress his new master. He doesn’t understand that at all, but it’s just one more reason he needs to figure out how the fuck to make Castiel want to keep him. He’s probably never going to get the opportunity to be owned by someone as kind as this man ever again, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go without a fight. 

Leaning over a little further, he bites his lip and tries to make his brain work for two goddamn seconds. God, he’s exhausted. He stares at the carpet and tries to come up with a gameplan of how to get his shit together, but his thoughts slip away like snakes in the grass. 

The room is warm. The fan on the ceiling turns lazily, producing more white noise than any discernible breeze, and he feels his eyelids drooping as he listens to the creaking of the trees outside and the soft breathing of the alpha next to him. The sun is streaming through the window behind his master’s chair, a gold square of light slowly stretching across the floor. He spaces out long enough that the warmth reaches his knees and begins to creep up his legs. 

Once, when he was young, he and Sam had stayed at a farm for a few months – his dad had saddled one of his soon-to-be-estranged friends with his sons and fucked off for far longer than promised. There had been a friendly, orange barn cat on the property, and he’s abruptly reminded of the way the tomcat had followed them around and flopped down in little patches of sunlight wherever he and Sam had stopped to play. He thinks he can relate.

That thought should probably shame him, but feels pathetically good to be in the sunshine and _not_ be afraid. His chin dips and touches his chest. 

And his collar, of course, pinches against the hollow of his throat.

A jolt of fear wakes him the hell up. He’d been falling _asleep._ Stupid – _beyond_ stupid. He’s supposed to be attentive to what his master desires – sleeping means he’s not doing his duty. Shaking his head to snap out of it, he sits back up and resolves not to get complacent, his hands clenched into fists. 

He’s getting far too fucking comfortable here. Sunbathing and dozing like a goddamn pet – that’s not what he is, not what he’ll ever be. 

Nobody buys a slave to spoil them and make them purr like a cat in the sunshine.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a short one, so I think I'm going to post the next chapter a bit sooner than normal :) Hope you guys enjoy getting Castiel's perspective for a bit. He's getting better! (A little?)

It’s quite difficult to focus on his work when he is close enough to scent the minute differences in Dean’s mood every time it shifts. 

Castiel had hoped to show the omega he meant him no harm by sitting with him like this, had hoped that the downtime would serve to ease Dean’s mind regarding his expectations. And at first, he thought it had worked. Dean’s nerves had dissipated as they’d settled in, his customary wariness giving way enough that Castiel could just begin to make out Dean’s _actual_ scent, green and soft like springtime. He’d even begun to doze, Castiel thinks; a pleasant, apple-sweet scent of contentment had soaked into the air around them both as he’d nodded off. 

But it hadn’t lasted. Castiel is not sure if he did something to set the omega off, but a moment ago Dean had sucked in a sharp breath, his scent abruptly shattering into fear once again. He finds himself typing a little too aggressively, clicking a little too harshly, adrenaline rushing through him with nowhere to go. Castiel just wants Dean to be at peace, but he has no idea how to even _begin_ to reassure him when he has no idea what’s scaring him in the first place.

He bites his lip. Considers whether it’s smarter to stay silent and act like he hasn’t noticed the sudden shift in Dean’s mood, or acknowledge it. At first, he thinks he’ll keep quiet – Balthazar has told him that, many times, it is better to leave things be than to try and pry them open – no matter how impatient and curious he may be. But when Dean shifts forward enough that Castiel can see his hands, balled into bloodless fists in his lap, the decision feels like it’s been made for him. 

“It’s alright if you’d like to nap,” he says eventually, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the email he’s been staring at for twenty minutes, unable to concentrate enough to read it. “I’m likely to be at this for a while.”

Dean is silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is small. “You don’t… want me to do anything else?”

Castiel frowns. He scoots back a little so he can see Dean clearly. The omega looks up at him, caught off guard with his eyebrows drawn together. His scent has morphed into confusion, bordering on apprehension. 

“All I want is for you to catch up on your rest,” he says, and Dean’s scent is even more confused after that. “If you’re still tired even after a full night of sleep, it’s because your body is asking for more so that it can begin to heal.”

Dean digests that for a moment, his brow furrowing. “So… you _want_ me to sleep,” he tries tentatively. He’s trying to make sense of Castiel’s words, which clearly don’t at all fit into how he’s learned the world works. It’s like he’s waiting for Castiel to rip the rug out from under him, to laugh in his face. 

“I would like you to make your _own_ choice, Dean,” he pushes, but the omega just looks at him with an even more bewildered expression. He tries again. “Are you tired?”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Several expressions flash across his face in quick succession – puzzlement, concern, fear. “I’m fine, alpha,” he says finally, voice sort of weak. “Don’t need any more sleep, I mean. Slept for a long time last night.”

“But would you _like_ to sleep?”

There’s no other way to describe it – Dean’s expression closes like a medieval portcullis has slammed down in front of it. His face goes carefully, intentionally blank, more empty than Castiel has ever seen it. And he doesn’t answer. 

It’s obvious that he doesn’t trust Castiel enough to tell him what he wants. Clear that he expects to be treated like a slave even though Castiel has no intention of doing so, that he expects Castiel to twist his desires around to hurt or punish him in some way. 

And it’s also clear that he’s not going to take care of himself unless Castiel asks – _orders? –_ him to do so.

He suppresses a sigh. He wants to sit Dean down and explain _everything_ to him. Wants to make it clear that the sole reason Castiel’s name is on his contract is because it was the only way to remove him from the system, wants to tell him that, before long, he will be able to fight for and earn his own freedom. But right now, Dean cannot even fathom the idea that he can sleep without permission. 

What happens when he tells Dean that he wants him to make _all_ his own decisions? What happens when he’s asked to care for himself, to make his own choices, to stop trying to please Castiel? He’s not sure that it will do anything but spook the omega if he asks Dean to change everything he’s learned overnight – and he thinks he’s beginning to grasp the importance of Balthazar’s warning about providing Dean with boundaries he can understand. 

So rather than push him harder, rather than force an honest answer out of him, Castiel breaks down. He changes tactics. 

“If you are tired, I want you to sleep.”

The omega’s eyes flicker up to his face, just shy of making eye-contact. He’s wary, understandably, waiting for the rest of whatever he thinks is coming. But when Castiel adds nothing else, he tentatively nods. 

“The couch is very comfortable. You could nap there.”

Dean’s eyes flick over to the sofa, barely concealed panic sparking in them. “I wouldn’t,” he blurts, a little too desperate. Castiel could curse his stupidity – Dean’s clearly afraid to be on furniture in his presence, and equally terrified of disobeying. So Castiel has just set him up with an impossible choice. 

“Then you could just rest here, if you prefer,” he amends. 

Dean watches him warily as he gets up and steps over to the couch in question, confusion all over his face when he turns around with a heavy quilt and an overstuffed pillow from the sofa. He hopes they don’t smell too much like him – he’s taken more than one nap here in his office after a restless night of tossing and turning in his bed.

He moves slowly so that Dean isn’t surprised when he drapes the blanket over his shoulders – though he does jump a little when he sets the pillow in front of him. After a moment, the omega lets out a long breath and picks it up with a little hitching motion. 

“Thank you, alpha,” he says quietly. He sounds a little dazed. 

“You’re welcome. Do you need anything else?”

Dean shakes his head, because of course he does. 

He returns to his work and really makes an effort to focus and respond to the flood of emails he’s collected over the last few days. He’s never taken a day off (other than the one day a week Pamela had essentially threatened him into keeping a habit of) before now, and the extended leave of absence he’d arranged in preparation for Dean’s arrival has thrown a bit of a wrench into the works. He trusts his people to take care of the place while he’s gone – he’s always trusted him to do that – but there’s a natural adjustment period even with his hands-off style of leadership. 

In particular, his assistant is clearly a little adrift. Alfie is nervous at the best of times, but he’s received a dozen emails from him asking for clarification and for permission to do things for other employees, none of which really needed to be sent. He suspects that the young man is struggling to handle himself because he's used to not having much to do at all with Castiel there – while he would not call himself controlling, he is not a good delegator when it comes to tasks he feels responsible for. Alfie, most of the time, ended up doing the not inconsiderable work of translating Castiel’s directives into more friendly and human-like language, or was at least a sounding board for him to bounce responses off of. He hopes he isn’t coming off as too robotic without his input. 

Perhaps the young beta would be a helpful translator here. Perhaps then he could stop scaring Dean every time he speaks. 

He’s so absorbed in typing out patient responses to each message that he misses the exact moment Dean falls asleep. Gradually, though, the man’s suspicion fades into simple weariness. When he looks up again, the omega is huddled against the side of the desk, his expression slack as he dozes. The soft green pillow is clutched to his chest rather than under his head as Castiel intended; he’s resting his chin on it, his nose buried in the velvety fabric. It’s not exactly ideal – he’d much rather Dean sleep in the bed upstairs – but rest is rest. 

Honestly, he’s just glad that Dean trusts him enough to let his guard down intentionally. It surprises him – yesterday, Dean had been sure that Castiel intended to _rape_ him. And yet, now, he’s willingly going to sleep right in front of him. It doesn’t really make sense to Castiel, but he supposes there’s something to be said for what simple exhaustion will do to a person. It probably isn’t that Dean trusts him, just that he’s too tired to be picky. Or, just as likely, that he’s taken Castiel’s _offer_ of a nap as an _order._

An hour passes uneventfully, then another. Eventually, Dean’s doze evolves into actual slumber. He slumps until he’s curled on the rug, the blanket covering everything but the top of his head, the throw pillow still snug in his arms. He sleeps right through lunch, and Castiel lets him; in fact, he doesn’t get up at all until he needs to use the restroom. Carefully, he pads around Dean and shuts the door quietly behind him. 

He lingers in the bathroom, washing his face and staring at himself in the mirror. He looks like a mess – he hasn’t shaved once since Dean arrived, and his customary 5 o’clock shadow has become something closer to a sad little beard. He sighs, scrubbing at his eyes. 

What does Dean see when he looks at him? A man, like him? A monster, lying in wait? A _master?_ Castiel doesn’t exactly think he fits the nurturing image he’s been asked to keep up – he looks a bit more like a homeless person, honestly, than anyone who could be trusted with the safety and the health of another human being. 

He pulls out his phone, hovers his fingers over the keys for a moment before he can figure out what to say. 

_He won’t even sleep without an order,_ he finally types out, sending it off before he can think better of it. 

Balthazar’s reply pops up like he’d been waiting with his phone in his hands. Maybe he has been. _hope u gave it 2 him._

_I did. I had to. I tried to get him to do it on his own, but he wouldn’t._

_color me surprised,_ he responds, and Castiel can practically _hear_ the sarcasm in the words. _dont expect him 2 take initiative any time soon cassie. poor kids got enough on his plate. go ez on him._

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. _I don’t want to control him._

The little typing bubble pops up and then disappears a couple of times before the reply finally comes through. 

_right now, ur protecting him._

From the outside world or from himself, Castiel doesn’t know. Perhaps it is both. He finds it a little rich that Balthazar, who has so often teased him for his lack of stereotypical alpha behaviors, thinks he is capable of protecting anyone. 

He locks his phone and slips it into his pocket. 

No matter what anyone says, he feels dirty when he tells Dean what to do. He’s determined to let the omega make his own choices, determined to convince him that he is not at Castiel’s beck and call. He’s just not sure how to do that when Dean can’t take him at his word or trust his intentions. 

When he returns to the office, mind overfull of swirling thoughts and future plans, he accidently lets the door close behind him with a loud click. 

Dean wakes up. 

It isn’t pretty. 

He jerks into consciousness when the door shuts behind Castiel, and the scent of terror floods the room like a dam has broken. He scrambles to his knees and snaps his arms behind himself, gripping his elbows and shaking, his head down so low it’s pressed to the floor. His eyes are squeezed closed, mouth slightly open as he pants.

Though it is his first instinct, and a strong one at that, Castiel doesn’t run forward to reassure him, doesn’t scoop Dean to his chest and snarl at the invisible threats to him that exist only in his mind. Instead, he gives it a breath, frozen in the doorway as the harsh sound of Dean’s panic shakes the room. Still, it’s only about thirty seconds before he concludes that Dean probably won’t be calming down on his own. 

“Dean,” he says, when the feral thing inside of him can’t stay silent any longer. 

Dean sucks in a sharp gasp and looks up at Castiel frantically, confused for another beat before his eyes clear. His arms drop down from his back and he slumps, _relief_ flooding the room. “God. I – s-sorry. I forgot –” 

Castiel swallows back his anger at the young man’s fear, at the fact that this behavior has clearly been ingrained through pain and suffering. He gives Dean another few seconds to calm himself down, for his breath to even out before he moves forward a few steps, hesitant.

“Was that position something your old master expected from you?”

Dean’s eyes flick up to his face, then back down to the floor. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to hold something; the pillow he’d been clutching earlier is several feet away from him, abandoned and forlorn, and his eyes dart to it before returning to his lap. “Um. Yeah.”

“When?”

The omega shakes his head slightly. “Always. If he caught me sleeping, he…” He swallows. “Wasn’t allowed.”

“You weren’t allowed… to sleep?”

“Not if he wanted something,” Dean says bitterly, the first hint of protest Castiel has seen since that moment out in the yard. His hands tighten in his lap momentarily. But, after a beat, they loosen, and he takes a breath, eyeing the old clock in the corner of the room nervously. When he speaks again, his voice is measurably meeker. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep that long – didn’t think I was that tired.”

Castiel shakes his head. He sits down on the little table in front of the couch, disliking the feeling that he is looming over the omega when he is already nervous. “Rest assured that I do not expect a schedule like that from you. You may sleep and wake up whenever you wish.”

Dean huffs out a dismissive noise, something like a laugh, rubbing his eyes with his hand. But when Castiel just continues to look steadily at him, he blinks, and the bitter amusement bleeds out of his expression. “You… you actually mean that?”

“I do.”

Perhaps it is because he’s still out of sorts from his abrupt return to consciousness, but Dean studies him a little more openly than he might have before. “So I can… even when you’re awake?”

“Yes. Even when I’m awake.”

“I can just... nap? Any time?”

Castiel is abruptly reminded of childhood games of _Simon Says_. Dean still thinks he’s being tricked, clearly. “The more rest you get, the happier I’ll be,” he says quietly, and the omega just stares and stares. 

“But what if you need something?”

He shakes his head, mouth twisting to the side in a sad little smile. “I have lived on my own for a very long time. I think I am capable of caring for myself, should the need arise.”

Dean flushes, a nervous swallow moving his throat up and down. “I – I know. I just...” 

Castiel softens. “I will never hurt you for doing something as natural and necessary as _sleeping._ Please know that.”

“I… ” 

He trails off, shifting nervously on his knees, his eyes darting to Castiel and then back to his hands, a flush blooming across his cheeks. He smells… _ashamed,_ which is not an emotion that Castiel understands. Not in this context. But Dean doesn’t try to explain himself. He just hunches in his shoulders and gets even smaller. “Okay. Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Castiel says, smoothing his hands down his pants to push away imaginary wrinkles. Dean adjusts so that he’s facing him more directly, his hands still twitching in his lap. He takes in the omega’s nervous scent, and adds, “I just thought it was important that you knew.”

Dean glances up at him out of the corner of his eye, his cheeks still bright red. “I didn’t… I mean, just so you know,” he offers quietly. “Didn’t really think _you_ would hurt me. Not when I woke up just now. Just forgot I wasn’t… that you weren’t...”

Dean grimaces. Cuts off the thought. But it makes something warm glow inside of Castiel, makes his heart grow a little bigger in his chest. “I understand.”

And the grateful look Dean gives him is almost painful, so he changes the subject. 

“I’m afraid dinner is just casserole leftovers. I don’t want to waste them.”

Dean’s got a twisted expression on his face that tells Castiel he would never complain about having any sort of food, leftovers or no. “If you’ll wait in the living room, I’ll warm up a few plates for us both. Is that alright?”

After a beat – probably realizing that Castiel is actually waiting on a response – Dean nods, already back to silence. 

By the time he returns with their food, Dean has made himself comfortable – or, as comfortable as he’s willing to be – next to the sofa, leaning against it as he’d done on the desk. He straightens when Castiel enters the room, confusion palpable when he passes right by the couch to go into his office. 

The omega’s face is nothing short of bewildered when he gives him the pillow he’d abandoned in the study, and he has to look away when something cracks in Dean’s expression. He holds the pillow to his stomach slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “I… thank you,” he says quietly, the words loaded with emotion that neither of them want to dig into any further.

The pillow stays clutched to his chest while they eat in silence, ten feet apart, the evening news murmuring in the background as Dean shoots him curious, confused looks out of the corner of his eye. And when the omega tentatively asks if he should go to bed, it goes up the stairs with him.

It may be insignificant, but Castiel can’t help but feel a little victorious that he was able to find something Dean finds comfort in.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Round and 'round and 'round we go! Where the angst and miscommunication stops? Nobody knows...
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who are reviewing! You always make my day when I read them before I go into work. Bless y'all T-T

The next few days run together.

Dean wakes up far too early every morning. Sometimes so early that it’s really the middle of the night, if his anxiety makes him, and he tends not to be able to fall back asleep once he’s up. He’ll get up, shower in mercifully hot water till he’s too nervous to stay under the spray anymore, and make his way downstairs once he’s sure he hears Castiel moving around. Since that’s not until around eight, most mornings, he usually has a lot of time to kill. Lots of time alone with himself. 

He kneels in the kitchen for breakfast, kneels in the office for lunch if he doesn’t sleep right through it. Kneels in the living room for dinner. He carries around the green pillow his master had given him everywhere he goes and tries not to think about how much he must look like a toddler with a security blanket.

It _does_ make him feel secure, though. Solid and warm and comfortable, so different from everything in Hell. When he starts to slip off into thoughts of his old life and his old master, he can run his palm across the soft velvet and breathe in Castiel’s scent and relax. He sleeps with it every night, curled around it like it’s going to protect him. And he feels like a child when he does so, but the first and only time he’d intentionally tried to leave it downstairs, he’d had to sneak back down in the middle of the night to get it before he could manage to fall asleep. 

These days, he’s doing a lot of things he doesn’t understand. 

Yesterday night he’d found himself tugging the sheets and the blankets and the pillows off of the bed on something like autopilot, arranging them on the floor between the mattress and the wall like some kind of crazy person before he’d realized what he was doing. He’d stopped, shaken himself, and put all but one quilt and Castiel’s pillow back. He hadn’t wanted to, though, and he doesn’t get _why._

The rest of his life here is equally confusing. He’s never had this much of a lull between horrors in his life. Never had this much food, either, to the point where he hasn’t been hungry at _all_ in a few days. Castiel seems intent on giving him enough to feed an army. It’s bizarre. As is going so long without being hurt, or even _threatened._

It still surprises him when he finds he can crouch or bend down without a grimace, when his knees no longer ache since most of his time is spent on soft carpet rather than dirty wooden floors, when he stops bleeding entirely from below his waist. He can’t even remember the last time he’s been so… whole.

And the more comfortable he gets, the more afraid he is of the moment where it will be taken away. 

He’s anxious, to say the least, waiting for whatever Castiel has planned for him. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. The alpha hasn’t shown any indication of what he wants, though. In fact, Dean doesn’t seem to be much of a factor in his life at all, other than that he’s cooking twice as much. He doesn’t initiate conversations often, probably because all of Dean’s answers are stilted and tense and take too long to come, because he has to figure out what the right thing is to say before he speaks. 

But his master never pushes him. Never tells him to do a single damn thing.

This morning when he wakes up, it’s no different than it’s been for the last three days. It’s still dark outside when his eyes open with what has become a usual rush of fear – fear that he’s slept through the warning footfalls of his master, that he’s going to be whipped for failing to be awake and in position when Alastair opens the door. Fear that fades only when he takes in the faint scent of the soft pillow under him and registers the lack of a chain on his neck. 

He wonders if that will ever go away, or if it has been beaten into him too thoroughly. 

At this point, he’s honestly getting more sleep on the floor of Castiel’s office than he is in the bedroom. He doesn’t have the energy or the will to pick apart how fucked up that is, but it’s the truth – he isn’t afraid when he wakes up as long as he can scent the alpha right away, can hear his gentle breathing and the tip-tap of the keyboard. Different enough from Hell that he can immediately recognize he isn’t there, he guesses. And the alpha’s bizarre reassurance that he can sleep whenever he wants like his time actually _belongs_ to him doesn’t hurt anything, either.

Instead of getting up right away, as he has been for the last few mornings, he stays curled on the floor and goes over his thoughts again and again like a hamster on a wheel. Frantic, going nowhere. The downside of being fed and well-rested is that he has a lot of energy, almost all of which gets fed straight into his anxiety. It tangles his stomach into little knots, claws into his gut whenever it gets the chance. He _hates_ it. 

He clutches the pillow to his chest and doesn’t look at his trembling hands. 

All he can keep thinking is that, if he doesn’t get his ass in gear, Castiel is going to realize he’s just taking up space and sell him back. He’s got this sick feeling that he’s just an experiment to the man, that Castiel was simply bored when he decided to buy him. Considering how empty the house is, he thinks that the alpha isn’t really the type to keep things with no use around. 

If that’s the case, he needs to prove himself to be use _ful_ real fast. He’s pretty sure the novelty of having a slave at beck and call is wearing off with every day he does nothing but sleep and eat. He wishes that the man would just tell him to _do_ something, if only so that he can prove he can. Dean has told himself that he will be good, and he’s going to try, even if he’s bound to fuck it up somehow. He’s useless to his master in all the ways that matter but maybe he can find other ways to be helpful, to show Castiel that he didn’t make a mistake in buying him. 

He knows that there are slaves that are not for pleasure, that are just for labor or housekeeping. The idea that he might be able to become one of those is too much hope to bear, so he shoves the thought to the side with a huff. He knows what he’s good for, and it’s not that. 

Only problem is that his master doesn’t seem interested in what he _is_ skilled in. He hasn’t looked at Dean in that way even once, from what he can tell. Hasn’t touched him other than the one time, hasn’t groped or grabbed or slapped. Hasn’t ordered him to his knees or pointed to his own zipper with a smirk or held him down with careless, heavy hands. Hasn’t even touched himself while looking, something lots of alphas that hadn’t even owned him had done in the past. 

And he’s grateful. 

Sort of. 

The _truth_ is, he’s scared. If Castiel doesn’t want him for that, Dean isn’t sure what the hell he’s going to be able to do instead to earn his keep. But he’s resourceful – always has been – and he’ll be damned if he continues to act like a beat dog rather than a productive asset to his master. Damned if he can’t find some way to make Castiel want to have him around. 

The clock on the oven reads 6:04 when he creeps downstairs and looks around for something to do. Castiel is not awake yet. The tile is cool under his bare feet, and outside the large kitchen window he can see the sky just beginning to lose the darkness of night, the clouds gray and heavy and low, full of snow. He shivers a little, but the house is warm enough that he doesn’t think too much about what the snow might feel like on him instead.

There are dishes in the sink, the same ones they’d eaten off of days ago, and every other one used since then. Apparently, the alpha isn’t real good at keeping up with the housework. Bitter thoughts start to form in him _(of course he isn’t, the bastard probably hasn’t had to lift a finger since he presented, the rich asshole)_ but they die out like sparks on wet wood. He doesn’t give a shit if his master is a silver-spoon baby. All he cares about is that Castiel has not used that power to hurt him. Not yet. 

He stares at the mess for a while, debating with himself, but in the end, logic convinces him to move forward. He won’t be a burden – he’s got to show he can be of use, even if it’s just for little things like this. 

Dean hasn’t washed dishes in a very long time, but it’s not like he’s forgotten how to do it. In no time at all he’s scrubbing away, hot water steaming around him, suds on his shirt. He’s making a lot of noise, but Castiel’s bedroom is far enough away from the kitchen that he’s not worried about waking the alpha up. The soap stings his wrists a bit, but he ignores it, thankful for the small pain in a way. It makes him feel more… normal, as fucked up as that sounds. 

Watching the dishes pile up into the drain pan feels… good. It feels like he’s accomplishing something real. For a half-second, he allows himself to feel confident, allows himself to remember what it’s like to be worth something. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

The plate he was scrubbing shatters when he drops it into the sink. 

* * *

Cold enough that he can feel it through his pajamas, the tile is hard as a tombstone under him, and, distantly, he thinks that his knees hurt from cracking down on it so fast. He’s aware that he’s crammed up against the cabinet doors under the sink and just as aware that it isn’t going to protect him from what’s coming.

He expects a hand to grab his collar, for his face to be shoved to the floor, for a kick in the ribs. He expects to be hauled outside and tied to the porch railing or a tree and whipped for his insolence, expects a hand in his hair and the zip of a fly and to choke when he’s shoved down. He expects _something,_ because he fucked up. He did something without permission, a thing his master _didn’t want him to do_ , and on top of that he just broke a dish that probably cost more than he did. 

What he _doesn’t_ expect is for the alpha to sit down on the floor in front of him, hands in his lap. He doesn’t expect the wash of _calm_ in his scent, or the wretched look on his master’s face when he dares to look up. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, and Dean can only stare stupidly at him, his heart in his throat. The alpha rubs a hand across his mouth, grimacing. “I keep screwing up, don’t I?”

The words make a hysterical laugh lurch out of him. “ _You’re_ screwing up? _You?"_

Castiel frowns at him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Dean.”

And something inside of him snaps at that, because for the millionth time since he got here Castiel is not doing what Dean fully expected him to. He’s exhausted and he’s bewildered and he’s terrified, and now he’s _angry._

 _“Yes I have!_ ” He’s yelling, but his voice is hoarse and broken, so he doesn’t know why he’s bothering. Castiel jerks back anyway, his face wary and confused, and Dean is so bewildered that he doesn’t have time to be surprised that an alpha flinched away from _him._ “I _have!_ I don’t understand why you keep telling me I haven’t – that’s _all_ I’ve done since I got here. I haven’t done anything right! I don’t fucking get why you aren’t punishing me, becuase –”

His voice cracks. He takes in a ragged breath. “I broke your plate,” he finishes lamely. “I broke your plate. And I’m yours, and I’m broken, too.”

* * *

Dean’s breath is ragged, his cheeks flushed, but the rage that had just tumbled out of him blows away like dust as Castiel stares at him. In its place, Dean pales, and he swallows, and he turns so that his neck is exposed and vulnerable. His scent is horrible – confused and scared and _sorry,_ and Castiel can’t deal with it for one moment longer. 

“You don’t have to believe me, right now,” Castiel starts, careful to keep his voice quiet. Dean flinches back anyway at the sound, his hands clenched around him. “But I bought you so that I could help you.”

“Help me?” Dean’s voice is strangled. He doesn’t understand, clearly, and Castiel swallows. 

“I work for a group that… that assists slaves,” he adds, wondering how much of this is getting through to Dean. “We take them away from bad places, like Hell, and help them get… better.”

He doesn’t mention that the goal is for Dean to be freed, one day. That he’s already helped nearly a hundred slaves leave their shackles, if only indirectly through his money. The omega isn’t ready for that yet. He isn’t even ready for this – Dean is frozen like a deer on a highway, his eyes wide and blank, staring at him like he’s sure Castiel will be his death. 

“You – but –” Dean’s voice shakes. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me?”

“No, Dean. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. He’s steeling himself for something; Castiel can tell. The walls that had slowly started to come down are being built back up right before his eyes. “But you want to… fix me.”

He says it tonelessly, and Castiel senses danger in the question. But he doesn’t know how else to answer, so cautiously, he agrees. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

The omega deflates into himself, the fight that Castiel briefly saw spark in him doused completely. “Oh.” When Castiel looks at him with his head cocked to the side, Dean doesn’t meet his eyes. “I understand.”

Castiel frowns. “I’m not sure you do, actually,” he hedges, and Dean flinches. 

“No, I get it,” he insists, and his voice is meek, the ardent frustration he’d let loose a moment ago a distant memory. “Will you… will you do it?”

The question is faint, almost hopeful, but there’s an edge of misery to it. “Will I do what?” Castiel asks cautiously. 

“Fix me. I don’t –” he takes a breath, shudders again. “I’ll be good for you, alpha. I know you said you don’t want to… to punish me, but you can. You don’t have to send me away to someone else. I’ll listen, I swear.”

When he finally understands, Castiel feels sick. 

Dean thinks he’s going to be _retrained._

He has no idea how to tackle that – his instinct is to over-explain, to tell Dean that he _wants to free him,_ but he feels like it will not go over well. Dean will not believe him. He can’t even trust that Castiel doesn’t want to _hurt_ him – there’s no way he’ll be taken at his word for something even more unbelievable than that.

The omega, quite understandably, expects one thing and one thing only from him. 

“If you’re asking if you’re going to stay here with me, the answer is yes,” he finally says, and Dean’s eyes fill with water that he hastily blinks away, hiding his face. And it sickens Castiel that there’s suddenly _relief_ in his scent – even though Dean thinks that Castiel wants to hurt him, to _shape_ him, he’s still relieved to be with him. Castiel had known that the training centers were bad, but it’s never sunk in just _how_ bad they must be. 

“Just tell me what you want, alpha, and I’ll do it. I swear to God I will,” Dean chokes. “I – I know I’ve been a shit slave in the past, but – but I _swear._ I want to be good. I want to stay here.”

Castiel’s heart is so far up his throat he thinks it might be stuck there. A thousand and one reassurances want to pour out of him and a thousand of them are the wrong thing to say, will just be something that could very well make Dean panic even more. He inches forward, reaches out tentatively and puts a hand on the younger man’s back, just as he did before. Dean flinches, and Castiel tries to combat his _fear please sorry no_ scent with calm reassurance and gentle security.

This time, though Dean has even fewer reasons to trust his intentions than before, the omega is much quicker to relax. He lets loose a long breath and slumps bonelessly into the cabinet doors beside him, his scent flattening out and losing its sharp edges almost immediately. 

“Dean,” he says eventually, and the omega looks over at him with a glazed expression, eyes red-rimmed. “I am not going to be like your previous masters. Do you understand that?”

The scent of desperate relief floods the kitchen, immediately combated by a wave of almost aggressive denial. Dean looks dazed, a little out of it, clearly battling between his biology and his brain, caught between wanting to believe Castiel and his conviction that he shouldn’t. 

Castiel doesn’t want him to feel trapped, so he asks, “Is it okay that I’m touching you right now?”

Dean answers quickly, almost robotically. “Yes, alpha.”

It’s not really what he’s looking for, because it sounds like Dean is just giving him the answer he thinks Castiel expects to hear. “Tell the truth,” he says gently. He doesn’t want to give Dean any orders, but he’s also aware that he won’t tell him what he actually thinks otherwise.

Dean’s scent sharpens a little, and he stiffens minutely under Castiel’s hand. After a moment, he swallows, cheeks reddening as his shoulders relax again. “You… it doesn’t hurt when you do it,” he says finally, and it’s clear that he’s comparing Castiel to the multitude of alphas that _have_ hurt him. 

He sounds surprised by his own words. Castiel nods. “That’s good. But that still doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

Dean frowns, looks down at his lap. His cheeks are fever bright, eyes a little unfocused, and Castiel wonders exactly how much Dean’s long term sleep deprivation and malnutrition are still increasing the potency of his pheromones. He starts to move his hand away, but Dean’s next words stop him. “It’s… nice. I like being calm.” 

He closes his eyes. “I’m never calm.” The words are whispered, more than a little ashamed.

Giving the omega a comforting rub, he can’t help but notice that Dean leans into it, his eyes closing. He’s still not sure how much of this is Dean’s actual preference, and how much of this is his body asking for things that Dean himself does not understand. 

“Can you do something for me?” Dean nods immediately. “If you ever want me to stop touching you, you absolutely have to say so.”

The omega’s face clouds with confusion. Probably to ask a question, he opens his mouth, but he just closes it again after a moment. “Yes, alpha,” he finally says, clearly lost.

“Are you confused?”

Dean sags. “Yes, alpha,” he repeats, and this time it’s much more honest. 

“That’s okay. Thank you for telling me,” he says, and Dean relaxes a little more. “One of my goals is to help you be less afraid.” He’s hoping this is the right direction to take, hoping that he can frame the truth inside of a context that Dean can understand. “So if I’m scaring you, I need to know. I’m not very good at avoiding that,” he admits, and Dean confirms it, quivering under his hand but saying nothing at all to agree. 

“Is this… part of the training?” he asks tentatively, and because Dean isn’t looking at him, Castiel closes his eyes in frustration. 

“That’s not what I…” He takes a breath. Lets it out as slowly as he can. “You don’t need to be _trained,_ Dean.”

But the omega just stares at him. So Castiel swallows, pats his back a little, and says, “It’s… essential to you getting better. So, please. Tell me when you’re unsure or frightened, even if it seems insignificant to you.”

He’s just not sure how to convince Dean otherwise. And sure enough, his answer seems to relax the omega, and Balthazar’s reminders about giving Dean clear boundaries echo in his ears. 

Dean swallows audibly, and there’s a long beat of silence before he speaks. “I’m scared,” he admits like it’s a dirty secret, and with a start, Castiel realizes that he’s following an _order,_ here, not confessing it because he wants comfort but because he thinks he has to. It makes him sick. “I don’t want to be,” he adds, voice breaking a little.

Castiel’s heart soars at that little bit of recognition that he isn’t something to fear. But it crashes back down to the ground just as quickly. Dean _is_ still afraid, and now he’s desperate not to be because Castiel wishes for it. Too late, he realizes that voicing his desire for Dean to leave his fear behind might be considered cruel – the omega clearly wants nothing more than to follow his orders, but Castiel has asked him for something that is currently nigh on impossible.

Dean shakes his head. “I – normally I can control my scent better than this, I swear.” He sounds miserable. Embarrassed. That Dean is ashamed of his own justifiable terror is just another injustice piled on top of him. 

Castiel closes his eyes. “Hell was an awful place,” he says carefully. Dean tenses at the very mention of it. “Not everywhere is that way, for omegas. And not every alpha is… like that. But you’ve been there for a long time. I’m not expecting you to get better overnight.” And he’s certainly not expecting Dean to _hide_ his fear. It takes a lot of discipline to control one’s scent, and it’s not exactly surprising that Dean is unable to under the circumstances. 

Dean bites his lip, and Castiel leans back a bit. “Do you understand?”

He nods, because of _course_ he would say yes whether or not he really does, and Castiel wishes he would look him in the eye, to see the sincerity of his next words. “Dean.”

He gets his wish, if only for a moment – Dean’s eyes, impossibly green and wide, meet his for a split second. “You _are_ safe here. It’s okay if you don’t believe me yet, though I hope I can earn your trust eventually.”

Dean’s eyes catch his again for a beat, long enough for Castiel to see that they’re wet. His words are soft when he replies. “I want to believe you.”

And even though his heart feels like it wants to rip in half, Castiel smiles.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of my favorites. I hope you all enjoy - it's a long one, so it will probably be a few days before I post another.

Dean is… confused. 

When he’d understood that he was here to be trained, some of the little scattered pieces in his brain had clicked into place. It made sense. Somehow, they had found out about the kind of slave he’d been for Alastair, and they sent him off to be punished. Molded back into shape. Castiel can call it helping him if he wants to, but he understands what that really means. 

His first bitter thought was that they’d already succeeded. 

After all, he’s ready to do anything he’s asked in order to stay here. Hell, he’s already _begged_ , and that’s more than he’d ever done for Alastair without being brutally forced to. Castiel’s insistence on him eating and sleeping sort of make sense, too – he’s going to want a clean slate to build him up from, unless he wants Dean to keel over from malnutrition in the middle of a training session. If Castiel had put him through half of what retainers usually did to him when he’d first arrived, he probably wouldn’t have survived. 

But now, days past the alpha’s explanation to him as to why he’s here, he’s grown less sure of himself. There are lots of things about the alpha’s reasoning, he’s realized, that don’t make any sense at all. 

For one, Castiel owns him. He’d _seen_ the man sign the documents. And that confuses him, because trainers never _own_ their slaves – they just borrow them or prep them for someone else, get them whipped back into shape for their actual owners. He’s been through enough training centers to know the drill. So the fact that Castiel bought him throws a wrench in things; he doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know how long he’s going to get to stay here before Castiel passes him on. And if there’s anything that makes Dean more anxious than outright aggression it’s those sorts of mindgames.

For another, this place is like no training center Dean has ever seen. First of all – it’s a _house,_ clearly his master’s home, and it’s the exact opposite of the clinical, sterile atmosphere of a training center that Dean has come to know. And as far as he can tell, Castiel is the lone occupant; the house is big, but there’s been no sign of any other people living here since he’s arrived. 

And then, of course, there’s the matter of the alpha himself. He’s the worst trainer Dean has ever had. Impersonal and stone-faced, the handlers at the centers had at least always been consistent with what they wanted Dean to do, and consistent with the punishments for his disobedience. But Castiel, so far, has not told him to do anything at all. Has not punished him even once. 

Right now, Dean is kneeling on the plush carpet of the living room by himself, picking sliced fruit off of a plate on his lap at an arctic pace. After his little breakdown, he had retreated to his room and waited to be told what to do – but the alpha had simply brought his meals upstairs for him and left him alone. And, because he’s a coward, Dean had milked that for all it was worth – he’d hid there for _days,_ afraid to even go down the first step of the staircase.

Driven by nerves more than anything, today was the first time that he’d dared to go back downstairs. Castiel had looked delighted – he’d greeted Dean and hopped up from his seat on the couch to hurry into the kitchen, abandoning the news he’d been watching entirely. When he’d returned, he’d handed Dean a plate, made noises about getting the right nutrients and vitamins into his system; assurances that Dean had only half heard as he’d tried to get over the shock of being greeted like a welcome houseguest rather than property or a nuisance. 

Castiel’s excuses about nutrition don’t explain the careful way he’d sliced the strawberries and apple and bits of melon for him, the little dollop of creamy yogurt he’d placed in the middle of the arrangement. The way he’d waited until Dean’s hands were steady before letting go of the plate. The way he’d gone upstairs and reappeared with the green pillow and given it to Dean with no comment at all, his scent replenished and fresh on the fabric. 

Dean eats another strawberry and savors it. He’d missed fruit. He’d missed it a _lot,_ years of tasteless mush and sour powder almost enough to have made him forget _._ Currently, he’s forcing his brain to focus only on this, on the sweet tang of the yogurt and the texture of the apples and berries. He wants to enjoy it. 

Castiel is not in the room with him, which makes that a little easier. He’d disappeared behind the solid wooden door of his office without him, for once. Told Dean to make himself comfortable and that he had work to catch up on, that he could call out to him if he needed something, but it seemed like he needed some space, and would he mind being alone? Dean had been too shell-shocked to reply and his master had taken that for the answer it was.

That had been almost two hours ago, and as he eats the last bit of fruit he has to admit he’s out of excuses to continue to sit here. 

For the first time since arriving, he’s alone in the den and not choking on his own terror or passed out from exhaustion. He takes the opportunity to look around. The place is… nice. Warm and dark and spacious, shelves of books all over the place. Aside from that, though, the room is largely empty. There are no pictures on the walls, no art, no bits of personal detritus and bric-a-brac that usually make up a person’s home. 

He wonders what kind of man Castiel must be, to live by himself in the middle of nowhere in a space so empty of personal items. Then again, he technically doesn’t live alone anymore. Not with Dean here, taking up space and resources while offering, frankly, _nothing_ in return. He feels out of place among the nice furniture and plush carpet, the bronze light fixtures and the leather-bound books surrounding him. A cheap knock-off among hand-made treasures.

If Castiel’s supposed to be training him, he’s a pretty shit job of it. Dean’s never been this useless in his life. Even before he signed his contract, he’d been in a constant stream of motion; watching out for his father, taking care of Sam –

He freezes in place as his brain shuts off, a familiar pattern of self-protection. 

He’s not thought about Sam this often in years. 

Grimacing, he can admit after a moment that he’s lying to himself. Sammy is always in the back of his mind, his only constant even after countless years away from him. It’s just that he can’t bear to think of what Sam might think of him now, his strong older brother unmasked as the little omega bitch that he always was underneath his bluster and bullshit. 

He can’t think about it anymore without wanting to cry and he’s done more than enough of that in the last few days, so he rubs a firm hand over his face and stumbles to his feet. Footfalls silent once he gets feeling back in his legs, he pads toward the kitchen, puts his plate next to the sink, and tries not to think about the one he’d broken into a million pieces.

The kitchen is even more impersonal than the living room, not even a colorful potholder to break up the monotony. There are several take-out menus on the fridge and Dean gets the odd feeling that Castiel doesn’t cook for himself as much as he’s cooked for Dean in the short time that he’s been here. It’s another thing about the alpha that doesn’t add up with anything Dean knows about the way they’re supposed to behave. 

He stares blankly at the counter in front of him and tries not to let the novelty of having nothing to do and no one to watch him scare him. If nothing else, Castiel is an alpha, and alphas always seem to know exactly what they’re doing. If he’s fidgety and uncomfortable it’s probably because his master wants him to be, and who is he to question that?

Laying his hands on the counter slowly so that he can’t dig his fingers into his palms anymore, he finally admits to himself that there’s nothing of value that he could really contribute to this household. Everything is clean save the dishes, and he’s not allowed to touch those. Castiel doesn’t want to fuck him, right now at least. And he’s got no skills to speak of aside from half-remembered mechanic lessons from Bobby and dollarstore style meal prep. 

This place is beyond different from any other house he’s ever lived in. Normally, he’d be acting out, trying to drive his master to return him. He’s done it a million times in the past, fighting and clawing and running, shuffled from owner to owner or sold back to the auction house when he became more trouble than he was worth. Now, being returned is something he’s desperately trying to avoid rather than search for. 

His collar feels tight around his throat. He wants to _stay here._ Wants to stay with these books and these soft rugs and these warm blankets, wants to stay with Castiel’s safe scent and gentle silence and strange kindness. 

The same fear that drove him to start cleaning the dishes that awful morning drives him to Castiel’s office door, the pillow in one limp hand because he’s starting to feel naked without it. The alpha has dropped it into his lap so many times that he figures it’s okay to keep it like it actually belongs to him – it’s one of the many things his master has done that don’t make any sense at all, things that serve no purpose other than to make him feel less afraid than he has in years.

Still. He lingers, not sure how to ask to be in the alpha’s presence. It feels presumptuous to knock on the door, even worse to summon his master like he’s the one calling the shots. So he just stands there, looking dumb as a box of fucking rocks, waiting for something to happen. Wondering why he’s even bothering to ask, as though he deserves to know. 

“Dean?”

He jumps about a mile into the air, heart in his throat. He must be stupid – of course Castiel can smell him.

“You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

It’s phrased like an invitation, not an order, but Dean isn’t dumb enough to pretend he has a choice here. He pushes open the door before he can bolt, standing there stupidly as his master looks up from his desk expectantly.

There are little glasses perched on his nose and the glow from the computer screen lights them up. He abruptly realizes he’s been staring at his alpha’s eyes and drops his gaze to the floor, a shudder rocking through his spine and lungs at the misstep. That alone would have been enough for Alastair to beat the shit out of him just a few weeks ago. But his new master doesn’t even smell irritated.

“Would you like to come in?”

The alpha’s voice is smooth, calm, betraying nothing at all, and Dean can’t make himself stand anymore while his master is seated. He takes a few steps into the room and kneels, thankful once again that the plush rug in the living room is mirrored here. He feels his anxiety fade a bit once he’s on the floor where he’s supposed to be; once he feels the soft, plush pillow against his stomach.

“Is there something bothering you?”

He says it with no inflection, but Dean can’t help but flinch. Just a few days ago, the alpha ordered him to confess every time he felt anxious, and he’s already broken that rule by waiting. He rocks back on his heels so that he doesn’t drop his forehead onto the carpet – Castiel doesn’t really seem to like it when he does that, oddly enough. 

“Alpha,” he starts, and his voice is weak even to his ears, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Alpha, what… what am I supposed to do?”

It’s probably not the right way to phrase it, but he’s been a bad slave for too long to remember how to be a good one. Alastair hadn’t believed in training centers, preferring to handle Dean’s defiance all on his own, so it’s been years since Dean was last officially reconditioned. He’s sure there’s a textbook way to ask this question but he doesn’t know it and doesn’t really want to try and remember, because it’s going to open up a can of worms so deep he could drown in it. 

Castiel doesn’t answer for a long time. When he finally does, his voice is measurably softer than before. “I don’t expect you to _do_ anything, Dean.”

Hands clenched on his knees, Dean closes his eyes and tries not to give in to the raw fear lancing through him. “But…”

It’s dangerously close to an argument with the man who owns him, so Dean shuts his own mouth before he can dig himself in any deeper. He knows, distantly, that he’s starting to spiral, can feel panic clawing into his chest like a burrowing rat. The chair squeaks a little as Castiel stands and Dean can feel his shoulders ratchet together. 

But then, yet again, Castiel is at eye level with him on the ground. He looks up with a nervous swallow, taking in the alpha in front of him with a surprisingly low level of dread. Maybe it has something to do with how Castiel is sending out those same calming pheromones, or maybe it’s because the man hasn’t laid a hand on him except to help him, or _maybe_ it’s because he has spent hours on end asleep right in front of the alpha with no bruises to show for it, all while clutching a pillow that smells a lot like him – but Dean isn’t as frightened by his proximity as he should be. 

“I bought you,” Castiel says, tone gentle and patient, “so that you could begin to _heal._ You are not here for any other purpose.”

Dean scrubs a hand through his short hair, a nervous gesture that gets him out of his proper position but one he does anyway. Castiel doesn’t comment. 

“I don’t understand,” Dean finally allows himself to say. It’s a dangerous thing to do, questioning his master, but he can’t take not knowing. The thought that at any moment Castiel might send him off to someone new scares him more than being punished for disrespect, so he locks his eyes on the alpha’s throat. “Why does that matter to you?”

The sadness that suffuses his master’s scent surprises him, and before he can stop himself he flicks his eyes up to meet Castiel’s, lingering long enough to notice details for the first time. They are blue, crinkled at the edges, and there is no malice there that he can see. Still, he only manages to hold eye contact for a second before he drops his gaze back down. 

His voice is low when he speaks. “You have been mistreated for a very long time, Dean. I want to help you because it’s the right thing to do. I didn’t buy you so you could serve me.”

Dean squeezes the pillow to himself, self-soothing and childish, and bites his lip. He wants so badly to believe Castiel, but he can’t. Not now, maybe not ever. He _knows_ that this is too good to be true, that the alpha is going to end up using him like everyone has, because in his experience alphas don’t do much else. What else is he good for, besides that?

The only thing he can figure is that Castiel wants to build him up so he can break him all over again, and the thought scares him down to his bones. The first few months of being enslaved had been some of the worst days of his life; maybe even worse than his time in Hell, in a way. He’d gone from being a human to being a _thing,_ no better than a toy with no will of its own. 

If Castiel treats him like a person for too long, it will hurt just as bad as it did then when he’s put back in his place. So rather than allow him to do that, Dean’s going to have to remind _himself_ of what he is, keep _himself_ where he belongs. 

“I just… I want to be good enough for you to not...”

The unfinished words hang in the silent room like a gunshot, a direct contradiction of what Castiel just told him. He’s basically calling his master a liar. Dean’s nostrils flare, taking in Castiel’s scent, searching for the anger that must be coming. But there’s nothing more than a little more of that sadness from before that he doesn’t understand. 

* * *

Castiel aches Dean’s confusion, his heart hurting for the young man who has been abused so badly he cannot recognize kindness for what it is. 

“Is that why you were doing the dishes, that morning?”

Dean nods minutely, eyes lowered. “You said you don’t want me for… for other things.”

He swallows thickly. “No, I don’t.”

Strangely, Dean looks pained at that. “Didn’t want you to think I was useless.” He’s pale when he adds, “Still don’t.” 

Back to this, then. Castiel holds back a grimace. He doesn’t understand Dean’s conviction that he’s supposed to be working – somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that Dean would be anything but relieved to have no responsibilities. “You won’t be punished for inactivity,” he tries, wondering if that’s where this anxiety is stemming from. 

The omega presses his lips together. He looks… _frustrated,_ if Castiel had to put a word to it. He thinks back to what Balthazar has taught him about routines, about how slaves have been trained to act and think. He doesn’t understand Dean’s mindset, but he wants to.

“Would you…” he trails off, not sure how to word his offer. “Would it help if you were able to ask me some questions? So you can get some… clarification? Some idea of what the ground rules will be while you are here?”

Dean stares at him, a little caught off guard, but the expression that creeps onto his face is hopeful. “You can ask me whatever you’d like, Dean. Nothing is off-limits, and I swear that I will not punish you for anything you say.” He doesn’t know how much that promise is worth to the omega, but his scent eases minutely. Relief softens his face, easing the tension there more than Castiel has ever seen before. He nods.

“Alright.” Castiel takes a breath. “Right. Can you sit up before we start? Actually sitting, not kneeling?” He tries to frame it like a question, but Dean clearly takes it as an order. Slowly, he moves until he has his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, the pillow laying beside him as though he thinks he’s not allowed to hold it in this position. The way he squeezes his legs is clearly a self-soothing movement, something well-practiced. 

The scent of his nervousness sharpens, but Castiel just doesn’t think he can handle this conversation while Dean speaks to the floor. He waits until Dean’s breathing evens out a little before continuing. “What would you like to know?”

The omega rests his chin against his knees. He’s silent for a long time. “How come you’re sitting on the floor?”

Castiel huffs. Of all the things he'd have guessed Dean to be concerned about, he hadn't considered this. “Because you’re sitting on the floor.”

“I’m _supposed_ to do that.”

Castiel bites his tongue against a million different protests. _Don’t overwhelm him_ , he reminds himself. “You were panicking. I didn’t think that standing over you would have helped you calm down, and I think I was right.”

Dean considers that for a long time, finally nodding. He chances a glance over at him, and for the first time Castiel can see a glimmer of what Dean should be under all the fear and anxiety, a sparkle of intelligent curiosity. “But I’m okay now, and you’re still there.”

Castiel smiles. “Perhaps I’m just comfortable down here.”

The omega snorts quietly, but he doesn’t respond. He just rubs the knuckle of one thumb with the pad of the other, thinking things over. “Why do you keep giving me things?"

“Things?”

Dean’s eyes flicker to the pillow. His fingers fidget with the fabric of his pants. Clearly, Bal had been right – Dean doesn’t understand the concept of gifts freely given. Not anymore. 

“I simply want you to be comfortable. The things you’re referring to take nothing away from me,” he says, and then adds, “and I don’t want anything in return.”

Dean blinks. Digests that. “And you cook for me.”

He shrugs. “Cooking for two isn’t any harder than cooking for one.”

“But… you’re not supposed to…” he swallows, rephrases. “ _I’m_ not supposed to eat the same food as you.”

“Says who?”

Dean stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “We’re not the same,” he finally says, as though it's obvious. “I don’t deserve it.”

Castiel doesn’t have the time or the energy to tackle _that_ one, but he does shake his head. “I’m not going to feed you gruel, Dean. If there’s ever something you don’t like or don’t want you can absolutely tell me and we’ll work around it, but I refuse to treat you like… like you’re an animal,” he finishes carefully, wondering how Dean will take that. 

“Is that why you don’t want me to call you ‘master’?” 

He chews on the question for a moment, wondering how honest he should be. “I don’t want you to call me that because it makes me uncomfortable.”

“But… ” Dean seems genuinely confused, his brow furrowing as he looks at Castiel from the corner of his eye. “You own me. That’s what you are.”

That probably shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but Castiel can’t help but wince. He knows that what his foundation does is good, he knows that they help people. It doesn’t change the fact that they are putting money into a trade that does _this_ to human beings. He hopes for a day where he will be able to help slaves without buying them, but today isn’t that day, and it probably won’t be for a long time.

“The person that owned you, before. Did you call him master?”

Dean shudders, turning his face away from Castiel. He nods.

“I don’t want you to think I’m anything like him,” he says gently.

“You’re _not,”_ Dean blurts, a shaky sort of desperation in his voice. “God, you’re not.”

“I’m glad you don’t think so,” he says, when he can swallow around the lump in his throat. “Can you see why I wouldn’t want you to call me the same thing you called him?”

Dean nods, and this time Castiel really does think that he understands. He flicks his eyes up at Castiel. “Is it okay that I call you alpha?”

He grimaces before he can stop himself and Dean catches it. His shoulders draw up defensively. Castiel hastens to reassure him while being careful not to lie. “I do not particularly enjoy that, either. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can continue to refer to me that way.”

Dean is quick to shake his head and dismiss his own comfort in favor of Castiel’s preferences. It’s not exactly surprising. “What do I call you instead?”

Castiel taps his foot on the ground a few times. “I would prefer that you call me by my name, but I realize that may be difficult for you.” 

Dean’s eyes flicker to his, then back down just as quickly. “If that’s… what you want.”

“What do _you_ want?”

Dean stares up at him silently, his eyes blank. Castiel wonders if he understood the question. “Dean?”

“Why do you _care_ what I want?” 

The question is quiet, but frustrated, and Dean’s looking away again. His arms tighten around his knees. 

“You’re a person,” Castiel says, when he can get the words out around the lump in his throat. “And people’s choices should be respected.”

Dean actually laughs at that, shaking his head as the weary sound slips out of him. His eyes close. “I’m not a person, though. I haven’t been a person in a long time.” He inhales. “Not sure I ever was.”

Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, debating with himself. He looks at Dean’s collar, at the mark of _ownership,_ a little too tight to ever be forgotten. At the bruises that _still,_ over a week after his purchase, circle his neck under and around the leather-covered metal. 

Dean truly believes what he’s saying – and why shouldn’t he? For the last decade of his life, he’s been treated as less than human. Trainable. _Disposable._ And suddenly Castiel’s head is spinning from how angry he is at the whole damn system. He feels ten feet tall, feels like he could split brick in half with the force of his rage, could tear down the auction houses and training centers that have hurt Dean like this with his bare hands. 

Of course Dean smells that anger, and of course he begins to tremble. When Castiel looks at him, he bares his throat, eyes averted, showing submission in the clearest way he knows how without kneeling, and Castiel is disgusted with himself for how little control he has over his emotions – and even more angry that Dean has to be afraid. 

“Sorry,” the omega whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m – no more questions. I’ll be good.”

Nausea twists inside of him. 

They can’t move forward this way. 

He reaches forward before he can think better of it, and Dean tenses, throat bobbing as he swallows audibly. Still, he doesn’t flinch away. Castiel wonders how much self control that must take. 

When Castiel’s fingers hook around his collar, however, the omega does jerk back, already babbling apologies, already begging, his scent screaming _terror terror terror_ . His hands scrabble at Castiel’s wrist and _squeeze,_ and he tries to kick out and scramble away, legs digging against the carpet as though his life depends on it. 

Considering the other things Dean had been willing to do without protest, the fact that he’s fighting _now_ speaks to just how terrified he is. Castiel moves forward so Dean doesn’t hurt himself and wills his hands to stop shaking, digs within himself and finds the will to be calm so he can get his thumb on the tiny scanner under the metal buckle and press down before Dean chokes himself.

The collar hits the ground with a dull, nearly soundless thud. And it’s so loud that Castiel will hear it in his dreams for years to come.

Dean’s stream of pleas cuts off mid-word. He’s staring at the strip of leather between them, his eyes wide and blank, hands still wrapped around Castiel’s wrist. 

He starts shaking. “Why – why did you – ”

“Because you shouldn’t have to wear it,” Castiel says quietly, very careful to be still, to keep his tone even. “Because you’re a person, not an animal, and you shouldn’t have to be constantly reminded of your circumstances. Because you don’t deserve it,” he finishes, and his voice breaks a little despite his effort for it not to.

Dean’s eyes are wet – tears are tracking down his face, still going from when he thought Castiel was going to do who knows _what_ with his hand on his collar, but he doesn’t think the omega even knows that he’s crying. He still hasn’t let go of Castiel’s arm, his grip weak and his hands warm as sunlight.

He seems stuck – frozen – unable to wrap his mind around what Castiel is saying. His words, when he speaks, are slow. Uncomprehending. “You’re… getting rid of me? Selling me?”

It truly clicks, then, what Dean has been so afraid of. Maybe he had, on some level, believed Castiel when he said that he wouldn’t hurt him. His fear had been deeper than that – he’d been terrified that Castiel would grow _tired_ of him. That he would be trained up and sent off to someone new.

That he’d be thrown away.

“No,” Castiel replies. His voice breaks. “No. You’re not going anywhere.”

“But…” his eyes move slowly from the collar to Castiel himself, still too empty, still too blank. “I don’t… you said… you were gonna train me.” His voice is weak, strangled. Too afraid for hope. 

“I said I wanted to _help_ you,” Castiel corrects him gently. “Help you heal from what has been done to you. Nothing more, Dean.”

Dean’s eyebrows draw together, his gaze impossibly green as he stares into Castiel’s eyes, searching for something he clearly thought to be impossible. 

“You’re not gonna hurt me?”

Castiel’s heart breaks into a million sharp pieces at the disbelief, at the _confusion,_ in the omega’s tone. “No. _Never,_ no matter what. You’re safe now.”

Dean is still for one more heartbeat. 

And then he’s crashing into Castiel’s chest, grabbing at whatever fabric he can reach as a sob wrenches its way out, his body folding nearly in half with the sheer force of the _relief_ ripping out of him. Castiel does the only thing he can – what his instincts have been screaming at him to do since he first laid eyes on Dean – and wraps his arms around him, holds the omega’s head to his heart, and soothes him as best he is able. 

Castiel can feel wet streaks on his own face, uncontrollable. He gently threads his fingers through Dean’s short hair and hopes it won’t scare him, but help him instead; will help him ground him and show that Castiel is not a threat and that he’s _safe_ here, hopes that Dean’s instincts will take over and help him understand what the rest of him seems incapable of grasping. He’s saying soothing things, breathing deeply and hoping that Dean will match the rhythm of his chest, stroking his thumb across Dean’s face and pushing away tears.

It’s all he can do. 

* * *

It takes a long time for Dean to stop sobbing, for his chest to stop heaving up and down. Shuddering every once in a while, he breathes raggedly through his mouth, air hot and humid against Castiel even through his shirt. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t loosen his grip at all, and so Castiel doesn’t move either.

But when he looks down, he can see the bruises around Dean’s neck clearly now, exposed fully from underneath the collar. Bruises that have come from others whose intentions were not so pure. He pulls his hand away from Dean’s face, wary of making him feel trapped; but it has the opposite reaction to what he’d hoped. 

Dean stiffens at the loss of contact, pulling away as if burned. “S-sorry. _Jesus_ ,” he says, voice breaking, eyes lowered as he rubs tears off his face with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to – I’ll get off. I’m pathetic. Sorry–”

Castiel’s response is to put his hand right back, and Dean slumps immediately, head dropping back to his sternum, ear against his heart. “You have nothing to apologize for. Are you comfortable like this, though? Do you want me to let you go?”

Dean hesitates for only a split second before he shakes his head, cheeks flushed and eyes closed tight. So Castiel doesn’t. 

They sit like that for a long time, long enough for Dean’s breathing to come even and slow, for Castiel’s butt to go numb on the floor. Dean’s scent is vibrant against him, sweet and soft like most omegas but with an edge of a bite, something like cinnamon. Nothing like the sour fear that has trailed him everywhere he’s gone since Castiel first laid eyes on him.

He has to wonder what Dean’s life might have been like if he’d never become a slave. Who he could have been.

Who he might become, now that his journey back to personhood has begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!
> 
> Okay, can't promise that that's the end of the angst and miscommunication. But it will at least be better for a while, lol.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a filler, but I wanted to get Dean's thoughts on the whole event in here somehow. They are progressing in the right direction, but our boy is still more than a little lost...

Dean can’t stop touching his neck. 

He’s in the shower now, after retreating with his tail between his legs from Castiel’s office, head aching from crying, muscles weak from shaking. The alpha had let him go with no comment, but his touch had lingered; Dean can feel it even now, buzzing against his cheek, his upper arm where Castiel had wrapped a hand and held him tight to his chest; can still feel the fingers in his hair, the palm on his side. 

His fingers skitter across his skin again, unhindered, and he ignores the jolt of anxiety he gets from the movement as best he can. The skin is raw, hypersensitive, deeply bruised from a million different jerks against a million different chains. The hot water burns like fire, but Dean welcomes it, tipping his head forward and letting the spray pound down on the back of his neck. 

It’s the only feeling he has right now that makes sense. He clings to it, pressing the bruises on his wrists as well to remind himself that he is here, and this is real. 

He doesn’t know what to think about anything. 

He feels… calm. Not the sort of calm that comes from dissociation, the screaming emptiness of _too much_ that he has felt so often in the most recent years of his life _._ No, this is the kind of calm that comes from bone-deep weariness, from being able to put down something heavy that’s been on your shoulders for far too long. He wants to sleep for a _year_.

He doesn’t know if he can logically believe that Castiel actually wants to help him. The cynic in him is trying to warn him away for all he’s worth, pointing out all the ways that Castiel can _(will?)_ hurt him, all the ways in which he has complete power over Dean. The voice is loud, insistent, and if Dean was being rational he would be listening to it. He would be packing up whatever he could steal and _running._

The fact of the matter, though, is that the rest of him has already decided that Cas is trustworthy. Castiel, who has soothed him with his low rumbling voice and his rain and honey scent, who had held him as he cried like a fucking baby into his shirt. Who has fed him and cared for him and protected him, even from himself.

Something about that – the pheromones, the gentle touch, the alpha-calm, the kindness of the gestures – maybe _all_ of it – has let the omega in him relax for the first time since he signed the documents that took his life away. No longer is his hindbrain sending frantic panic signals out, no longer is everything in him screaming _fight,_ or _run,_ or _submit._

It’s only now that the feeling is gone that he realizes how strong it had been. How much of his brain it had been occupying. He feels lightheaded from its absence. 

As far as he knows, the omega _bitch_ in him is a naive idiot. It’s forgotten that Castiel literally owns him, can do whatever he wants to Dean. It’s forgotten that Castiel is an alpha and Dean is an omega and the basic math that those facts always equate to. It’s forgotten everything Dean has had to learn the hard way.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, letting out a careful, slow breath. The tile is a little cold when he folds himself down onto it, hugging his knees as the shower spray digs into the aching muscles of his back, but the need for something familiar is overwhelming in its intensity. He touches the tips of his fingers to his chin and drags them down until they meet his chest. Drags them back up again. 

He can’t see why his master would remove his collar. Can’t _fathom_ it. From the instant it went around his neck it’s been used as a tool to control him, as a convenient handle for him to be moved exactly where someone else wanted. He’s never been able to overcome the raw panic of having his air cut off, no matter how many times it happened. Has never been able to keep himself from begging when it pushed against that sensitive place on his nape, Alastair’s favorite way to string him up. 

He supposes that is probably the point of the thing. Just one more way to get him to submit. 

More than that, though – the collar was a safeguard against him trying to run. Dean couldn’t have taken it off himself without setting off all kinds of alarms and shocking the _fuck_ out of himself, in the extremely unlikely event that he could have cut through the metal embedded leather in the first place. It’s tight, _obvious,_ impossible to hide from anyone looking for it. Not to mention the tracker that’s built into it, the one that had led capture-cops, and later, _Alastair_ to him time after time. By taking it off, Castiel has made it incredibly easy for Dean to escape. 

But. 

He’s run plenty of times before and knows that even in the most ideal of circumstances, it’s a long-shot that he’ll get anywhere near freedom. He’s still in the system as a slave, meaning he won’t be able to find a job, can’t even get a credit card to pay for travel or food. And that’s not even counting the fact that his face will be everywhere by the end of the day, prime real estate for capture-cops and slave hunters to make a pretty penny off snatching and returning him. 

So running, as tempting as it is, would be stupid. And even if he thought he had a chance… 

Regardless of Castiel’s motivations and his long term plan, whatever it might be, Dean can’t avoid the fact that this is the best he’s had it. Pretty much _ever_. He would be an idiot to run from this and risk going back to something worse. Maybe that’s the voice of the broken coward inside him speaking, but that one's a hell of a lot more convincing than the one telling him to hightail it. 

He’s dried and dressed and standing in the middle of his room, still lost, when Castiel knocks on his door. He freezes, feeling like he’s done something wrong without the weight of the collar on his neck. It makes no sense, since Castiel is the one who took it off in the first place, but his heart is still pounding like he’s about to be caught red-handed. He waits for the door to open. But it doesn’t. 

“Dean? I brought up some dinner, if you’re hungry.”

Dean shakes himself, rubs a hand across his mouth. Down his neck. 

The door swings with a slight squeak when Dean finally opens it. Castiel is well back from him, two plates balanced in one hand precariously while the other holds two cups in a wide grip. The pillow is under his arm. Dean waits for him to come in, but he doesn’t - just stands there waiting. His expression is caught somewhere between cautious and hopeful. 

It hits Dean, then, that his master is waiting for _permission._

He takes a step back. Tries to open his mouth to invite him inside, but can’t get the words out because they sound far too presumptuous. Ludicrous. 

“Can I join you?” Castiel asks, smiling encouragingly. When Dean just keeps staring at him, his smile falters a bit. “Or – I can just give you your plate and I’ll eat downstairs, if you prefer –”

“Please.” The word bursts out of him, cutting his master off. “Please, uh. Come in.”

Castiel lets out a breath, his smile returning. “Thank you, Dean.”

While his presence in the room is large, it is not looming, and Dean sinks slowly to the ground. His knees are a little sore from the tile earlier, but the carpet is thick. It doesn’t hurt, not really. It hurts even less when Castiel nudges the pillow in his direction and he holds it to his chest, trying not to be obvious when he inhales the alpha’s scent off of it. 

Castiel doesn’t remark on his lack of enthusiasm. Instead, he settles down on the ground as well, carefully placing Dean’s plate and the cups between them, looking for all the world as if he’s perfectly satisfied with eating his lunch on the floor with a slave.

On the carpet. Castiel is _sitting on the carpet._ And even though he’s done it more than once now to calm Dean down when he’s panicking, this is the first time he’s done it just _because._

Dean watches him for a beat, then leans to his side. Sits down on the ground, off his knees, legs tucked under him. 

He only understands after he’s done it – this is the first test. 

Castiel doesn’t remark on his incorrect posture. He just glances up from his food and gives him a small smile, then resumes eating, acting for all the world as if this is normal in any way, shape, or form. 

Letting loose a breath, Dean slides the food toward himself – a sandwich of some sort, some kind of meat and cheese and lettuce. There’s chips, too, and sliced carrots with dressing. The visual of the alpha in front of him squeezing ranch into the fussy little ramekins makes him feel sort of hysterical. 

“You don’t actually have to wait for my permission. Just so you know,” Castiel rumbles. He takes another bite, giving Dean time to formulate a reply of some sort, but he can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound either contrary or pathetic. 

He dips a carrot into the ranch and brings it to his mouth with only a small degree of hesitation as an answer instead, and Castiel smiles gently at him again. That smile is growing familiar – small, kind of hidden, but there all the same in his eyes and across his cheeks. 

The alpha catches him staring, and when he raises an eyebrow Dean drops his gaze to his food, swallowing nervously. 

“What are you going to do with it?”

The bravery of the question surprises him – he has no idea where it came from. He winces at his own audacity, at the stupidity of bringing up the collar so that Castiel knows it’s important to him. That this is something the alpha can hurt him with that goes beyond the physical. 

As if the whole crying in his lap thing hadn’t been indication enough. 

Castiel sets down his sandwich and takes a beat before he replies. When he does, his voice is low and serious, and the gentle ease from before is gone. “Currently, it is locked in the safe in my office. I’d like to destroy it, but that would send an alert to the local center and I’d rather not deal with those kinds of questions.”

Dean shudders. He can see it now – capture-cops bursting in the door, tasing him, flattening him to the ground to be recollared and probably sent off for retraining. His hand jumps to his throat, reassurance that it really _is_ off, and Castiel’s eyes track the movement. 

“So… will you… you’re gonna put it back on me?” he asks, _very_ carefully, but even still his scent spikes at the thought. Castiel’s gaze is knowing when he dares to meet it, and when he replies, he stares intently as though willing Dean to believe him. 

“No, Dean.” He waits a beat, probably to make sure that Dean is listening. “As long as you’re in this house, you will not wear that hateful thing again. I will do everything in my power to keep you from having to wear it outside the house, too.”

Dean closes his eyes, relief shuddering through him. If Castiel wanted to win his loyalty he’s found the quickest way to do it. It’s possible, of course, that his master is lying, but once again the omega in him is sure that the alpha is being truthful. 

As much as he can be, anyway – he knows the law. He’s a slave, and he’s supposed to be marked like one. Going out in public with his neck bare is asking for trouble for the both of them. Dean would be punished severely, of course, but even Castiel could be fined. 

But his shoulders relax anyway. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “Nothin’ I can do can pay you back for that. So, whatever your reason for doing it. Thank you.”

The words are pitiful, inadequate, but Castiel seems to understand anyway. He nods. Then, hesitating, he opens his mouth and closes it a few times, seeming to search for the right thing to say. It’s a level of thoughtfulness he hasn’t ever seen from an alpha, and for a moment, all his worries fall to the wayside as he considers the strange man in front of him. 

“I… ” he begins, and Dean notices that he’s fiddling with a carrot, spinning it in his fingers. He looks strangely nervous. “I need you to know that this is not a tit-for-tat situation. I am not doing any of this because I want you to feel like you owe me, or as though you need to repay me in some way. I’m doing this simply because it is right, and far too many people have done you wrong.”

Dean swallows against something uncomfortable in his throat. He doesn’t really understand what Castiel is trying to tell him – it’s like the alpha has seen into his mind, somehow, had known that Dean would be questioning his motivations. It makes him uncomfortable, to say the least, that his suspicion is that transparent. He still wants to stay on the alpha’s good side, and he _is_ grateful for all Castiel has done for him so far. But he can’t deny that he’s waiting to hear what his master wants in return. 

Like has happened so often in his life, the logical part of his brain is battling with the instinctual one. Half his brain thinks that Castiel absolutely must be playing him, somehow; the other half insists that he’s not, that he’s genuine and exactly the kind of master that Dean had stopped praying for years ago. 

“As I told you, I am part of an organization,” Castiel continues eventually when Dean says nothing, shifting his food around on his plate in what Dean would swear looks like a nervous tick. “We purchase slaves that are in particularly bad situations and do our best to help them. Medical care, therapy. Education, if needed. Essentially, rehabilitation.”

“You want me to be a person again,” Dean sums up quietly. The idea, for some reason, makes him want to laugh. Or maybe cry. 

The alpha gives him a long, measured look. “You are already a person, Dean,” he insists, “though you have not been treated like one in far too long.” 

It is strange, Dean thinks, to hear his name said so often. He has not been referred to by his actual name in so many years that it’s a wonder he hasn’t forgotten it. Alastair had called him all sorts of things, none of which made him feel as though he were human, and thinking about his former master’s nasally, cruel voice makes him suddenly sick. The sandwich on his plate looks unappealing, blurring around the edges as he blinks back tears that make no sense to him. 

Oh, if he could see Dean now. He’d probably laugh in his face before putting him back in his place. Laugh at him for pretending he’s worth anything at all. For having hope. 

He sets the plate down on the rug slowly. Castiel must sense his sudden drop in mood, because he moves on to the next subject, his voice gentle. “There are specific people employed with us whose job it is to work with you. When you’re comfortable with the idea, I’d love for you to meet a few.”

Dean looks up sharply. “I – I thought you said I’d be working with you?” 

He hates the fear in his voice, the transparency of his cowardice. But he’d _just_ begun to understand his place and his boundaries with the alpha, and now his master is bringing even more people into the equation. More people he’ll have to tip-toe around and please, if he knows what’s good for him. 

“You will be, for the most part,” Castiel reassures him, attuned to his anxiousness, “but there are people who are better suited to help you than I am in… well, to be frank, in most areas.” He leans forward, pulls out his phone and begins to scroll through it, holding it up to show Dean a picture of a grinning man. He’s slightly older than Castiel, blonde, his arm thrown over his master’s shoulders. “For instance – Balthazar. He's the head of rehab, and one of my good friends besides. He would come by the house and help you get settled, help you understand your next steps. When you’re ready.”

Dean swallows, suddenly cold. He’s experienced that before – masters bringing _friends_ over. It never ends well for him. Shoving an omega into a room with more than one alpha is usually a recipe for pain that will last for weeks. 

“Dean?”

He blinks. For some reason, he thinks that Castiel has probably said his name more than once. He pulls his hands down from over his face, not remembering putting them there in the first place, and deliberately wraps them around the pillow instead. 

Castiel is staring at him, clearly confused. “Are you alright?”

Dean nods, his lips pressed together, but Castiel doesn’t relent. “What’s bothering you?”

His heart pounds in his chest. One of the only orders Castiel has given him is that he is supposed to tell the man when he’s afraid. So far, he’s fucked that up pretty much every time. “I’m scared,” he blurts, and blush colors his face when Castiel’s face morphs into one of surprise. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says after a beat, the sandwich in his lap all but forgotten as his eyes nail Dean down with laser focus, “but may I ask why?”

Dean presses his nails into his palms, willing himself silently to calm down. “I just – if you’re bringing other alphas here, I, uh. I might be a little…” he trails off, not sure how to explain in a way that won’t offend his master, regardless of what he has planned.

But Castiel just blinks. “Oh. Well, that won’t be an issue. Balthazar is an omega.”

“He’s – what?”

“He’s the head of our rehabilitation team, so it would only make sense that an omega was hired for the job.” For some reason, this sounds like an explanation that Castiel has given many times before; his voice is a little tired. A little taut. 

This is the exact opposite of everything Dean knows about how his kind are treated in society. He’d only been an _out_ omega for a few years while he was free, but it’d been more than enough for him to learn about how the world worked. He’d gone from badass to bitch, from respected by his peers to leered at by the very same boys, still children themselves. Nothing about his personality had changed – he’d still been defiant, still been a protector, still liked classic rock and drove his dad’s car without a license. But as soon as he’d presented, the _instant_ his scent had changed, he’d been shoved aside, pushed around, treated as lesser. 

It was only when he’d taken scent blockers and heat suppressants and passed himself off as a beta that he’d had any sort of respect. He’d fought against his designation until he couldn’t anymore.

He knows that female omegas struggle to find work outside of caretaking or housekeeping, knows that even in those trades they are still paid less than the other two designations. Knows that _male_ omegas make up more of the sex-slave trade than both alphas and betas combined, despite the fact that there’s far fewer of them in the population proportionally. The apparent fact that Castiel, an alpha – and a privileged one, at that – seems to have no problem with a male omega holding such a lofty position says a lot about him. Dean stares at him with naked confusion, and Castiel seems to know exactly what he’s thinking. 

“I’m not a man who holds outdated prejudices against omegas,” he says, chin jutting out slightly as if he expects _Dean,_ of all people, to belittle him for that view. “Your designation is just as capable as the other two and it’s ridiculous to assert otherwise.”

Dean can’t help the half-laugh that escapes him, more of a sound of surprise than anything else. “You know, Cas, there's a lot of people don’t agree with you on that one.”

It’s only after he’s spoken that he realizes that he referred to Castiel by his name – by a _nickname,_ in fact. He stiffens, prepares automatically to be reprimanded for his lack of respect. But when he looks up at Castiel, the man is _smiling_ at him. 

“Be that as it may,” he replies, not mentioning Dean’s slip-up at all but clearly quite pleased about it, “it’s still the truth.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait, y'all! I have had a crazy busy week. Hope you are all staying safe out there!

Castiel continues to give him space, save for mealtimes. 

Dean can’t lie and say that he isn’t grateful for it. It gives him a lot of time to figure things out, to decide what to believe and what to do with himself. He familiarizes himself with the house, wandering and examining everything around him carefully while the alpha sits in his office and types away at his computer, working at his job that Dean has, so far, been too distracted to be curious about. Nervously, and perhaps stupidly, he sneaks in and out of various side rooms, inspects closets and cabinets, and pokes through things that do not belong to him. 

It’s a few days before he realizes he’s looking for any signs that his master is lying to him. 

He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly – he thinks he’ll know it when he sees it. But he can’t find a single suspicious item anywhere in the house. There’s no tools for punishment, no sex toys that he can find. No evidence of a previous slave, either. Then again, there’s not much of  _ anything  _ in the house, so maybe that shouldn’t be surprising. 

No pictures of family, no degrees hanging on the wall, not even any art. Just books and books and more books, lining the halls, taking up entire spare rooms downstairs. There’s everything from fantasy to biographies to medical texts, and his palms itch as he stares at them, wanting more than anything to pick one up. 

He used to read to Sammy all the time. Hell, he’d  _ taught  _ Sam to read, staying up late under the covers of whatever shitty motel or apartment they were in with a flashlight and an arsonel of stupid voices for each of the characters, pride flowing through him when Sam had been able to take over and they’d taken turns reading chapters together. 

The last time he’d dared to pick up a book, it had gotten him beat. Slaves don’t get to do leisurely things like  _ read.  _ It’s bewildering to him that, in just a few short days, he’s gone from fearing for his life to even being able to consider doing something as presumptuous and frivolous as sitting down with a book. 

The number of times that he’s having to remind himself of his place is beginning to scare him. Castiel has made it easy for him to forget what he is – no demands placed on him, no collar on his throat. No threats and no watching eyes. 

Even with the stillness, though, he’s still jumping at every noise, tensing up at every stray expression from his master. Dean is exhausted at the end of every day as though he is still working, not lazing around, and he doesn’t understand that. His sleep, when he gets it, has been dreamless and deep, the rug and pillow soft under him and the blanket heavy and warm, the twin structures of the wall and the bed large and comforting on either side. He rarely wakes up in the middle of the night, and he’s thankful for it. 

But he doesn’t feel fully rested by the time the sun rises either. He supposes his body is just catching up from years of being snatched from desperate naps and half–dozes. And always, there’s that lingering fear, that sharp terror when he wakes up; seconds after his eyes open, he’s found himself up on his knees more often than not. 

He knows his master smells that fear on him, but he doesn’t bring it up. Castiel doesn’t push him to share  _ anything _ , which he appreciates, and he doesn’t push him to talk to Balthazar either. While he’s grateful, it leaves him with nothing to do, and despite Castiel’s constant reassurance that he isn’t required to be productive, he’s not made to sit around on his ass for too long. 

He doesn’t dare do anything without Castiel’s permission, though, not keen on having a repeat of the dish incident any time soon. So, instead of cleaning or organizing like he – strangely? – wants to, he takes to curling up on the windowsill in his bedroom and observing the little movements in the bright white snow and trees outside his master’s home. 

There are no neighbors within eyesight. He wonders what part of the state they’re in, how far from Hell he’s managed to get. Wherever they are, it’s beautiful outside, the light sparkling off the icicles in the trees and the branches swaying rhythmically in the wind. It’s been a long time since he’s seen snow without being terrified out of his mind, so he’s determined to enjoy it while it lasts. 

That’s where Castiel finds him for dinner a few days later. For once, he doesn’t knock – if only because Dean’s left the door open. That’s progress, for him, though he can’t pretend like his ears haven’t been pricked for Castiel’s approach for the last hour or so, or that his palms haven’t been sweating with nerves. He makes himself continue to look out the window for a moment before acknowledging him, makes himself not slither to his knees on the ground. 

Sooner or later, he has to figure out if Castiel is serious about not beating the absolute dogshit out of him when he does something wrong. Tactically, it makes sense to do it now – Dean would survive a beating just fine at this point, with days of food and water in him and no serious injuries to put his life in danger, should Castiel exacerbate them. 

The alpha doesn’t appear to want to do anything of the sort, though. He doesn’t come in right away, just lingers at the door. “Dean, can I join you for dinner?” 

He asks the same question every time, even though Dean’s answer has never been no. It’s part of the reason that he’s not really all that afraid, anymore, that the alpha will snap and hurt him out of nowhere. He has to remind himself that it doesn’t mean that Castiel won’t _ ever  _ hurt him, just that he doesn’t seem to be partial to the random fits of rage that so many of his previous alphas had. 

Dean looks over and nods, just a little nervous. Castiel steps inside and whatever he’s made tonight smells  _ awesome.  _ Dean’s mouth is watering. It’s amazing how fast he’s gone from surviving on one meal a day or less to now, where he’s getting hungry and being fed every few hours, only minimally suspicious that Castiel will deny him. 

The alpha pauses in the middle of the room, looking around, and Dean feels the muscles in his back tense and quiver as he waits. He’s always been on the floor until now, so this is new territory. 

Castiel finally shrugs and plunks himself down on his usual spot on the rug, offering Dean his plate with no anger on his face or in his smell, and Dean looks down at him incredulously. 

He can’t stand it for more than a few seconds. Before he knows it, he’s slid to the ground and is resting with his back on the window seat. He’s still getting used to Castiel being at the  _ same  _ level as him – it’s far too much for him to be sitting below Dean. It pricks at some anxiety that he can’t name. 

Castiel just smiles at him and hands him his plate. “I imagine that you are growing bored,” he comments, and though there’s no inflection in his tone Dean can’t help his heart from skipping at the words. Jesus, it feels like the man can read his mind. 

Being  _ bored  _ is a luxury that slaves cannot afford. His hands grip the plate so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t break.  _ Bored  _ slaves get beat for not doing their duty, get sent back for retraining so they remember their place. Masters find new and inventive ways for  _ bored  _ slaves to spend their time, and if they can’t… 

Slaves with no purpose get  _ sold _ . 

“Dean?”

Castiel’s voice is soft, as usual. A little worried. Of course, the alpha can smell his ramped up anxiety. Dean bites his cheek and tries to get ahold of himself. Castiel has already  _ told _ him he isn’t going to hurt him, and that he isn’t here to be trained. And he’s already told  _ himself  _ that he believes it. 

His hand twitches to his neck and touches his bare throat and a little, if not all, of his anxiety calms. His master’s eyes track the movement, concern creasing his brow. It strikes Dean, all of a sudden, that Castiel is waiting for him to speak. 

“I’m just… I’m not used to this,” he says after a moment, gesturing at the room with a shaky movement. “Not used to just… sitting around.” He doesn’t know how to explain more than that, doesn’t fully understand it himself. Doesn’t get why he’s incapable of enjoying the quiet. 

Castiel’s gaze is serious. He doesn’t chastise Dean for being ungrateful, doesn’t brush him off. Instead, he nods slowly, like he’s really taking the time to think over what his  _ slave  _ has to say. It’s weird. 

“I wish that my home was less… hum-drum,” he says after a moment, a little self deprecating twist to his mouth that might be a smile, might be a frown.

Dean can’t help but laugh, a little shaky. He folds his arms around himself. “I’ll take  _ hum-drum _ over…” he trails off, swallowing. “I ain’t exactly complaining, is all I’m saying.” 

Castiel studies him, and while the silence makes him a little uncomfortable, it is nice to feel like he’s being listened to. It’s a foreign feeling – normally, having an alpha’s undivided attention is something he would try and avoid at all costs. 

“Is there anything you would like to do?”

The question makes anxiety squirm in his stomach, though he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because any alpha who had tried to figure out what he wanted before now had done it so they could be sure and dangle those things over his head, just out of reach. It might be naive, but he believes Castiel’s question is earnest. Still, he can’t open his mouth, can’t make himself ask for something just to be denied. He just twists the strings of his hoodie around his knuckles and pulls them tight till his fingers are white. 

“I don’t know if you’d be interested,” his master eventually says, “but as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there are plenty of books around. You’re welcome to any of them.”

Dean freezes. Is the alpha reading his damn mind? Castiel must sense his surprise, because he smiles. “Is there a subject you’re interested in? I could look around and find those books in particular.” He rubs the back of his neck. It’s not a movement he’s seen from an alpha before – an indication that they’re unsure, or maybe even embarrassed. Dean blinks at the thought. “I’ll admit I don’t have a particularly robust organization system, so it may take me awhile.”

“You mean… I can read?” He stares at Castiel, and Castiel stares back, so he clarifies. “Like, I can… You would let me touch your books?”

Castiel looks at him a little strangely. “Of course you can.” At Dean’s bewildered expression, he softens. “Nothing in the house is off limits to you, Dean. I suppose I should have made myself a little more clear about that.”

Dean shakes his head a little, unwilling to agree with a critique of the man who owns him, and still processing his words besides. Castiel’s mouth twists. “You’re welcome to any of them, anytime. The television too, if that interests you.”

Dean licks his lips, nerves pricking at him. “Honestly, uh. That would be great, Cas,” he says, and it’s the only the third time he’s used his master’s name. Only the first time on purpose – not by accident or as a slip of the tongue. And just like he had been hoping, Castiel beams.

Seized by a moment of what must be insanity, he pushes his luck even further. “Can I…” 

He swallows, breaking off the question, but Castiel cocks his head to the side and waits patiently. It doesn’t seem to annoy him that Dean is daring to ask him for things that he definitely doesn’t deserve – on the contrary, it seems like it’s making him a little excited. 

“I want to… I  _ need _ to do something around the house,” he finally says, wincing at how presumptuous he sounds. “I can’t just… I can’t keep sitting here,” he finishes helplessly, gesturing at the window seat. “I’m not supposed to do that.”

“I don’t expect anything from you, Dean,” his master says, and it’s so patient and honestly confused that he finds he isn’t afraid, just abashed. He feels small and ungrateful, frustrated because he feels useless and angry at himself for being unable to be what his master wants him to be when it should be  _ easy.  _

Dean ducks his head down. “I know. Sorry.”

Rather than be satisfied by his deferential tone, however, Cas frowns. “I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter, though. They obviously do not align with mine.” 

Under any other circumstances, Dean would be scared shitless at those words. Disagreeing with the man that owns him has never brought him anything except for pain and suffering. But Castiel doesn’t sound angry or even dissatisfied – only curious, genuine and kind, and it’s reassuring enough that he takes a chance and, for once, speaks openly. 

“I could maybe…” He trails off, still not sure if he’s overstepping, hoping to God he isn’t, “If your books are, um, all over the place? Like you said? I could organize them. If you wanted,” he amends quickly, voice shaking a little. He doesn’t know what just pushed him to ask that, doesn’t even really know why he wants to do it in the first place.

Castiel cocks his head to the side again. The movement makes him look strangely non-threatening, for an alpha. “Is that something that would bring you happiness?”

What a weird fucking question to ask a slave. Dean flushes, averts his eyes. He’s not even sure why, but honestly? Yeah. It would make him happier – or at least, more at ease. He just knows that he needs, desperately, to be useful, and that the idea of organizing something appeals to him in ways that he doesn’t understand. 

Even back when he was free, he was always busy. Cleaning, cooking, working, hustling. Helping Sam with his homework, sharking pool to pay the bills, or wiping up after another of his dad’s drunken rampages. The few times he’d fucked around and gotten lazy were times where he and Sam had been in the most trouble, the most hungry. 

So he bites his lip, and he nods. 

His master doesn’t mock him. He just carefully cuts some chicken into a bite size piece on his plate and spears it with his fork, thinking his words over. Belatedly, it hits Dean that he hadn’t even noticed the alpha  _ had  _ a knife – an unthinkable lapse, back in the day. Something that could have gotten him  _ killed _ . But now, he isn’t even phased. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind being able to actually find the book I’m looking for,” Castiel says lightly, smiling a little. He eyes Dean knowingly. “It’s a task that is going to occupy you for a long while, I’d imagine. If it will bring you some peace of mind, I would certainly appreciate it.”

Dean lets out a breath, shoulders slumping. He drops his head against the windowsill.

It’s not exactly a  _ solid _ foundation, but at least he has a bit of a purpose now.

* * *

The morning – or night, really – that he sneaks downstairs and starts pulling books off the shelves, he feels like an interloper. Like he’s broken into Castiel’s home and is rifling through his things without permission. He’s so nervous that he can’t even pick up a book at first, and it takes twenty minutes of him staring at the shelves while Castiel sleeps for him to make sense of the titles. 

A few hours later, when Castiel wanders out of his room, there’s only a few small piles on the ground. The alpha’s cheeks are flushed from his morning shower and there’s a towel around his neck. The collar of his shirt is damp, his feet are bare. 

Dean takes all of that in with a well-practiced once-over – an automatic threat assessment, something he’s learned to do as a means of protecting himself. Thing is, there’s nothing threatening about Cas at all. Nothing ringing his extensive system of alarm bells. He’s tense anyway, always nervous in unprecedented territory. 

The alpha must sense his wariness, because he smiles that small reassuring smile. “Good morning, Dean. I see you’ve gotten an early start.”

He’s crouched on the ground right now, a book on orioles clutched in his suddenly sweaty palms. He should probably stand. Or kneel. One or the other. “Um. Yeah. Is that – Is that okay? I know I didn’t really, uh, ask –”

“It’s perfectly fine,” the alpha rumbles, toweling off his hair until it’s scattered in a hundred different directions. It’s strangely distracting. “I’ll admit I don’t understand your enthusiasm for this project, but I certainly am not planning on begrudging you the activity.”

Dean feels his shoulders relax as Castiel moves into the kitchen, feels his breath leave him in a slow stream as he listens to pots and pans banging around. He sets the book down and wipes his palms on his pantlegs. 

He can’t smell any kind of aggression from the alpha – can’t get much of anything, really, other than Castiel’s usual base smell, a little muted from the shower he just took. He can trust that, he thinks, because most of the time alphas are real bad at hiding their scents, and Cas has made his emotions pretty obvious so far. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but all he can pick up on is the bacon that Castiel is apparently frying for them both. 

Because Dean eats the same thing he does. And Castiel doesn’t mind cooking for him. 

He shakes himself, a little bit angry that he’s still so jumpy. It would be nice to just be able to relax, to accept that he’s won the fucking lottery and Castiel’s every waking breath is not going to be spent making him miserable. But the looming feeling of the dangling second shoe hasn’t really dissipated, just changed shape. 

Once, he’d been taken in by a master that told him he would only be doing housework. He’d brought him home, drug him around by his collar, made him repeat the rules, and then promptly acted like he didn’t exist. The alpha had a little sour beta wife who did little more than glare at him and give him the shittiest scraps to eat, and two kids who ignored him at best and poked at him like he was an interesting insect at worst. 

Compared to the last house he’d been in, it had been a paradise. For a few months, he’d done nothing but clean or cook or take care of the yard, and even with the extra, remote controlled and perimeter triggered  _ shock-collar _ around his neck, he’d started to relax. 

Then the alpha had come home from work with red-ringed eyes.

His wife had left that morning with the kids, gone for the week to visit family. So there’d been no one to stop the man from getting  _ exactly _ what he wanted, no one to keep him from using Dean for the purpose he’d no doubt bought him for in the first place. The alpha had chased and then cornered him with a  _ leash _ in his hand, the scent of his rut choking the breath out of him as effectively as the collar did when he’d dragged his head to the floor.

He’d stepped on the leash while he’d fucked him, like Dean was nothing more than a dog.

Three days later, while the alpha slept it off, Dean had pried the extra collar off with a squirreled away screwdriver, powered through the punishing shock that had sent him straight to the ground, and hurled himself over the fence in the backyard. When the capture-cops found him a week or so later, his neck was still scorched from electrical burns and his ass was still bleeding.

So, while Castiel has made him feel safe, has given him plenty of reasons to trust him, Dean can’t. Not yet. All he can think about is the moment when his master is going to remember how he’s supposed to treat Dean. How the rest of the world is perfectly  _ okay  _ with him treating Dean. Castiel may want to baby him now, may want to treat him like a pet while it’s fun to do so. But Dean can’t help but wonder when the novelty of that is going to wear off. 

However, he’d also do well to remember that after the escape attempt from the family, he’d gone back to the retraining center and then straight to Alastair. It had taken less than a week for him to miss that family, for him to regret running away. 

So, even if he can never  _ trust _ Castiel, he can still appreciate how good he has it here. 

By the time the food is cooked, Dean has moved exactly one book from the shelf to the coffee table, and has resolved not to be ungrateful for any moments of peace he can find.

For the first time in a few days, they don’t eat on the floor in Dean’s room – instead, Castiel announces that breakfast is ready if he’s hungry. When he inches into the kitchen, the alpha is leaning against the counter next to the stove with a plate balanced in his hand. He looks relaxed. 

Dean looks for his serving on the ground near the table where he’d usually eaten it when they dined in the kitchen, but doesn’t see one. There’s a second plate on the counter nearest to him. It’s empty. 

He’s rooted to the spot. 

Castiel nods at the plate. “Help yourself, Dean.”

This feels like a test. In order to get to the food, he has to cross Castiel’s path or make it incredibly obvious that he’s skirting around him. He presses his lips together, picks up the plate. Castiel takes a long sip of coffee. 

He takes one step, then another, till he’s crossing in front of his master to get to the frying pan that’s still warm on the counter. How much is he supposed to eat? The same as Cas? Less? Only eggs, no bacon? His hands are shaking so bad when he picks up the spatula that the scrambled eggs slip off of it and  _ splat  _ onto the stovetop. 

The clink of a plate on the counter makes him jerk around. Castiel is looking at him closely, a little frown on his face. “Dean?”

His hand spasms and he lets the spatula drop back into the pan and it’s only through sheer force of will that he doesn’t drop to his knees on the ground right there. “I made a mess,” he confesses immediately, as if Cas can’t see that all on his own. “S-sorry, I’ll – uh – just, give me a second –”

“I’m not concerned about the food. I’m concerned about you,” Castiel says, his voice a touch stern, and Dean freezes in the middle of trying to scrape the egg off the expensive gunmetal stovetop with his hands. The alpha’s eyes soften when Dean dares to meet them. “Can you tell me what’s bothering you? I’m not sure I understand.”

Dean huffs out a sharp laugh, nervous. “I’m – I don’t know how to explain.”

Castiel regards him quietly for a moment. “Would you try?”

The question is plain, no force behind it. For the first time, Dean wonders if Castiel actually  _ does  _ mean it as a request, and not as a thinly veiled demand. 

He swallows. “It’s just – I’ve never really, you know. Eaten the same things as – uh. As my…” he trails off, not sure how to refer to the alpha. It’s clear he doesn’t like being called Dean’s master, and doesn’t like being called  _ alpha  _ either, so he’s at a loss. Castiel seems to understand, though, because his mouth draws in at the corners until it forms a little frown. 

“I’ve told you that you won’t eat different food here,” he reminds Dean, and that makes his heart speed up a little because when a master has to remind you of what he said, it’s usually more forceful the second time around. More painful. But Castiel said he wouldn’t do that, and Dean reminds himself that he believes him. 

“Right. That’s right, I’m – yeah. Sorry,” he says, stupid and quiet. And he starts to leave it at that, but Castiel doesn’t look satisfied by his deferential words. Unlike every other alpha that has owned him, he doesn’t seem to like when Dean blindly agrees with him. 

He takes a breath. 

“Only, uh. Here’s the thing?”

Castiel cocks his head to the side, prompting him silently to go on. “I sorta, um, logically get that. Like I understand what you’re saying, and I don’t… I don’t think you’re lying, or nothin’.” He stumbles over his words, trying to explain in a way that Castiel will understand. “Only, my brain ain’t gettin’ the memo. You know? I’m still kinda… waiting.”

Castiel still looks a little mystified. “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting to fuck up,” Dean finishes, worrying his bottom lip. “Waiting for… I don’t know. To eat too much or not enough. Or take something I’m not s’posed to. Dunno,” he repeats, feeling small, hating his ugly, ignorant southern drawl more and more as he speaks. Hating that, because he’s nervous, his words shrink to sounds that are almost unrecognizable as English. He sounds uneducated, compared to Cas. Low. 

Castiel nods slowly, digesting what he’s said like his words actually matter. For the first time, he considers that to Cas, maybe they  _ do,  _ Kansian, high-school-dropout accent or not _.  _

His master taps the counter, considers what he’ll say before he says it like he so often seems to. “Would it help you if I told you that I have plenty of food, and that the only expectation I have is that you eat as much or as little as you please? That anything in the kitchen is available to you anytime you wish, and nothing is off limits?”

“I…” Dean swallows around something hard and lumpy in his throat, his eyes burning a little. “That’s…”

“The truth, Dean. I’ve no shortage of food and no shortage of funds with which to buy more. It is important to me that you feel secure that you will not ever go hungry.”

“I’ve eaten more in the last week than I ate in a  _ month _ back at… back there,” he blurts. He needs Castiel to know this, for some reason – needs him to know just how fucking  _ different  _ this is, how grateful he is. “I know you ain’t trying to starve me, Cas.”

The alpha’s shoulders relax at that. “That’s… good. I’m glad.” He examines his plate, glances at Dean’s still empty one. “Does it help when I portion your food out for you? You seem less… uncomfortable.”

Dean’s cheeks burn, but he can’t lie. “Yeah. Sorta. Can’t fuck it up if you’re the one doing it, you know?” He laughs nervously, but the sound doesn’t ring as happy. 

Castiel sighs, and Dean is hit with the stomach-sunk feeling that he’s disappointed the alpha somehow. But when his master looks at him again, it’s with kind eyes and a tired smile. “Well, if you’d like, I’ll gladly make you a plate. Do you like bacon?”

And just like that, the discussion is over, and Dean’s no longer under the microscope. He releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and steps away from the stove. Back to his place. “Yeah. Used to eat that stuff like candy.”

Castiel looks up at him with a half smile, sliding some onto his plate. “Did your parents often cook it for you?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, nah. I mostly did the cooking. Sammy liked it when–”

The blood drains from his face.

His master looks up at him sharply when his mouth snaps shut. He steps back, away from the counter, away from the alpha.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he says softly, after a long, tense moment of Dean’s silence. 

He blinks hard, trying to get hold of himself. He doesn’t know why he said that. Doesn’t know why he so casually revealed something so precious about his old life to this alpha. It  _ scares _ him. “Sorry,” he blurts out, the apology automatic, “I just, uh –”

“You don’t have to explain.”

He appreciates the hell out of that, appreciates the gentle waft of soothing scent of  _ relax relax relax _ from the alpha even more. He makes himself step forward and take the plate from his master’s hands. 

And just to show that he ain’t a bitch, he kneels down right there and starts eating. Never mind that his stomach is rolling, never mind the cold sweat that immediately breaks out on the back of his neck. Never mind that he’s terrified of being so close to his master while he’s on the ground and the alpha is looming above him, the position a reminder of his first days here and many,  _ many  _ days before that. 

“Dean.” The word is quiet, but there’s just enough  _ alpha  _ in it that Dean’s head snaps up and he locks eyes with his master’s throat. “Perhaps we should eat in your room?”

He lurches to his feet and follows the man obediently as they climb the stairs. 

They eat in silence. 

* * *

That night, he has his first true nightmare since he became Castiel’s. 

He jolts awake in the darkness of his room, the walls spinning around him until he’s not sure if he’s back in Hell or still in his dream or somewhere else entirely, and he huddles down on the ground and covers his neck till he can breathe again. Till he remembers that he doesn’t belong to Alastair anymore, that his master isn’t going to open the door any second and step on the chain on his collar and pound into him without so much as a threat. 

Till he remembers that Sam is safe from the world Dean lives in. 

He’s still shaking when he sits up, shame all over him like slick.

He didn’t really think he’d be free of those memories, but he’d hoped. He’s gone nearly three weeks now without a nightmare. Three weeks of thinking about his old master or his old life for only a few seconds before thoughts of his new one interrupted. True, he wakes up terrified most mornings, but it fades quickly when he remembers where he is, who he’s with. And it hits him anew how strange that is – that it’s an  _ alpha  _ that is calming him down. An alpha making him feel safe. 

Complacent. He’s grown  _ complacent.  _

Nothing proves that more than his slip-up in the kitchen. In all the years he’s been a slave, he’s never told a single soul about Sammy.  _ No  _ one. Sam has always been his one safe thing, the one memory he’d been able to keep for himself through all of this. The one light he could look to when things got hard. When he was exhausted, or starving, or in so much pain he thought he might keel over, he could always remember Sam and know, despite it all, it was worth it. 

And this morning, over some bacon and a smile, he’d thoughtlessly given up his little brother’s name to the man who  _ owns _ him. Talked about his family with an easy grin on his face like his _master_ is his _friend._

He’s too far gone. All his master had to do was show him some human decency, and he’s completely come undone. 

Logically, his master can’t do anything with Sam’s name. His brother is grown now, a white alpha man in a world that caters to white alpha men. And there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that Sam is strong, that he’s accomplished – he was too smart to ever become anything else. 

It still makes him uneasy, the thought that a rich alpha knows who Sam is. He  _ never _ wanted his brother exposed to this world. Not even an alpha like Castiel is safe. 

In the darkness of his room, he wraps his arms around his legs and gives up on sleep, fear curling around his throat like a snake. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! I hope all of you are keeping your heads up out there. Here's the next chapter. It's more build up to the next peak in the roller-coaster ride, friends, so don't hate me too much for leaving it here. I'm still trying to edit the next chapter because I'm unsatisfied with it - believe it or not, I feel like the plot is progressing too quickly (I know, I know). I just want to stay true to a realistic sort of timeline! 
> 
> Many of you mentioned that you're eager for Dean to meet Balthazar, and I promise that it's coming! In the meantime, I put in a pretty long conversation between our resident alpha and his head of rehab to help satisfy that itch. 
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you that are leaving reviews, by the way! I need to catch up and reply to them, but work has been very busy. I'm a teacher, and as I'm sure many of you can imagine we are dealing with a lot of unprecedented territory this year. 
> 
> Stay safe out there, y'all!

Watching Dean work is a pleasure – one he’s careful not to indulge in too often, lest he make the omega uncomfortable by doing so. 

The focus on Dean’s face as he moves around the house with stacks of books in his hands, the way he bites his lip as he concentrates, the gentle way his apple-like scent starts to spread through the house and sink into everything – they’re welcome changes from the terrified young man from before that could not so much as stand in Castiel’s presence. And, if Castiel is honest with himself, welcome changes from the lonely and sterile atmosphere his home had been before. 

Still, he’s under no illusions that Dean is equally comfortable with _his_ presence just yet.

Dean is still skittish; jumpy, his words faltering when he asks for something, even if it’s small. He still eyes Castiel when he walks into the room like he’s waiting to be hit, still flinches if he is startled. Still nervously bows his head and defers to Castiel like he doesn’t have opinions of his own, even when Castiel asks for them. 

What’s worse, Dean appears to be getting less and less sleep, and his plates are left closer to full than ever before. Castiel has to wonder how much of that has to do with the episode in the kitchen, and he kicks himself for the hundredth time for so carelessly disrupting the omega’s routine. 

He’d thought it would be a nice gesture to allow Dean to serve himself, a way of telling him that he could be more independent. But it had backfired. Now Dean doesn't enter the kitchen for meals at all, waiting instead for Castiel to make a plate that he can eat in the safety of his room.

Since he joins him most mornings, Castiel can’t miss the fact that Dean’s bedroom reeks of _fear-sick-sorry_ while they eat breakfast, that the circles under his eyes have darkened. Doesn’t miss that he spends a lot of time absently running his fingers up and down his neck, or that, after Dean’s comment about who he assumes must be his brother, Dean hasn’t said a word in conversation to him other than to answer direct questions.

Unsure of what else to do, Castiel updates Balthazar a few days in. 

“He’s… I think he’s _starting_ to understand he’s not in danger, Bal.” Progress is progress, and the fact that Dean isn’t falling to his knees everytime Castiel walks into the room anymore should really be victory enough. He frowns. “But…”

“He’ll come around, Cassie.” Even over the phone, Castiel can hear the sound of his friend's ever-present racketball bouncing off his office wall. “Bet you could even get the kid’s collar off soon.” 

Castiel winces guiltily. “Um. Well. I sort of… already–”

“You already took it off,” Balthazar interrupts, voice flat. There’s a pause, and then a long suffering sigh as the ball stops bouncing. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t have any tags for him, do you?”

Castiel stays quiet. At the main campus, when slaves’ collars are removed, they’re provided with dog tags as their replacement IDs. Law dictated that slaves needed to be easily identifiable, and it had been the best loophole they’d found that still satisfied that requirement. The omegas can remove them at any time, technically, since the campus is considered private property – there is no law that says they _can’t_ , as long as they keep it on their person and wear it while in public. 

Curiously, the vast majority of the omegas don’t take their tags off. Ever. He hadn’t understood why, but Balthazar had, and Castiel had asked him to clarify early on in their years of rescue and rehab. The omega had stared at Castiel with something hard in his gaze, a curl to his lip that told him he probably didn’t want to know the answer – but he’d asked again anyway.

Bal had looked away, his jaw cocked. And Castiel had been right – he hadn’t liked the answer at all. 

The omegas at the center have no singular owner – they are purchased as company slaves, owned by the organization as a whole. So it had, once Bal had explained it to him, made sense that they would be nervous about their security, anxious to let others know that they were owned by _someone_ and were therefore safe from many kinds of violence and abuse from others under the letter of the law. Had made sense that they would wear those tags as a form of protection.

But he’s not sure that Dean would want the so-called security that a new collar, however loose, would provide. Not sure that he even trusts Castiel enough to feel that sort of safety from being owned by him, anyway. 

Castiel grimaces. “He’s… he’s staying here, so I didn’t think it was necessary.”

Balthazar makes an irritated noise. “And what, are you just planning on keeping him cooped up there all the time?”

“No, I just…” He sighs. “I didn’t think. It was spur of the moment, Bal – and I don’t think I did the wrong thing.”

His friend huffs, but he doesn’t disagree. After a pause, he asks, “How’d he take it?”

“He…” Castiel trails off, pressing his lips together. Thinks about how he could even begin to describe the desperate relief that had rolled off the omega, how his face had crumpled and his body had too, how he’d reached for comfort like a drowning man might reach for a rope, and eventually settles on, “He hugged me.”

Balthazar whistles, long and low. “Bloody resilient kid,” he says, “considering what he went through.” 

Balthazar knows more about that than Castiel does. Personally, he hadn’t been able to stomach more than a quick skim of Dean’s file. He’s seen the basics, has a good idea of the sheer number of disciplinary actions and escape attempts from the thickness of the packet alone. But past that, he’s got no idea about the specifics of Dean’s injuries, about the people that have owned him or the things he’s been “trained” in. He’s not sure he wants to know, not sure that he could handle knowing. 

So he doesn’t understand what Dean’s been through. Not really. The realization that he _should,_ if only to be sure he’s helping Dean as much as he can, makes him guilty. He eyes the drawer that Dean’s file is tucked away in, biting his lip. 

“He’s strong,” he agrees eventually. “But he’s… I feel like he’s backtracking lately. I’m not sure he’s sleeping well.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Once. He _said_ he slept. I don’t know.” Castiel frowns, recalling the way Dean had averted his eyes, how he’d stuttered out something deferential and scared when Castiel had asked after his comfort. “His nerves seem a little… frayed. He’s eating less, and I think he’s having nightmares.”

“That’s normal,” Balthazar reminds him. “Kid’s got a lot of bad memories to sort through.”

Castiel is quiet at that. Dean seemed to have been doing okay – right up until he’d mentioned _Sammy._ But he doesn’t want to get into that with Balthazar, isn’t even sure if he’d be able to explain the pure fear on Dean’s face that had appeared, the way he’d shut down completely and retreated into himself. “He keeps… touching his neck,” he finally says, knowing what that will mean to Balthazar. “Along his throat, but also…”

“The back.” Bal sounds tired. “You know we’re sensitive back there, Cassie.”

“Yes. He protects it.”

“I’m sure he’s been grabbed by the scruff one time too many,” he replies, an edge of bitterness creeping into his tone. Bal’s acerbic personality makes it easy for Castiel to forget the man’s history – but at times like this, he’s reminded again just how much the omega himself has been through. “Not many alphas will really lay into it, even _masters,_ but…”

“There were bruises back there when he first arrived,” Castiel says quietly. “Pam said it was probably long term abuse.” He hasn’t seen much of it himself – Dean’s been wearing hoodies consistently since that day, careful to hide himself behind layers of fabric. He’s not sure if it’s on purpose, but either way, he’s never really gotten a good look at Dean’s nape – just a glimpse here or there since he took off the man’s collar. 

Balthazar hisses. “Bastard. As if he didn’t have enough power over the kid already.”

Castiel rubs the bridge of his nose, frowning down at his desk. “Can I help him in any way?”

His friend snorts. “Not like you think. He’s gonna have to sort through some of that on his own, and he’s still getting used to you. He’s not gonna trust you with anything that deep yet.” He half laughs. “Hell, you’re probably a mystery to him. You’re a little weird, mate, no offense.”

“None taken,” he replies lightly. He’s used to Balthazar’s ribbing, and he can’t deny that the man’s right. He is, charitably, a hermit, especially now that he’s not coming to work. “You think he’ll start to settle a little after he realizes I’m truly not going to hurt him?”

Balthazar sighs. “Yes, I do. It’s gonna take longer than you think, though, so don’t get impatient. You remember how jumpy I was back then, and that was years after I got out. Give the kid time.”

He nods, a little of the tension inside of him easing. “What’s he doing right now?” Bal asks.

“... Organizing my books,” he admits, a little guilty now that he says it loud

“Let me guess: he asked for something to do?”

“He did. I’ll admit I don’t understand that.” And he hadn’t. He’d thought Dean would have appreciated having nothing to do and no expectations, for once, but it seems that his decision to leave the omega with nothing on his plate had been yet another wrong choice. So wrong, in fact, that Dean, as scared as he is, had managed to draw together enough courage to ask for something different. 

Balthazar snorts. “Kid isn’t used to not having a purpose, as morbid as that sounds,” he says, and Castiel winces. “In his world, uselessness is the ultimate sin. Nobody wants a slave that can’t give them _something,_ and believe it or not, most omegas would rather be wherever they are than those fucking brainwashing facilities.”

Castiel frowns. That certainly hadn’t been true for Dean – he’d had quite a few retraining sessions documented, much more than the average. Something has clearly changed. “So… he’s doing this so I don’t sell him back?” He’d known already that Dean had that fear, but he’d thought they’d moved past it. He’d thought Dean knew better, now. 

He can almost see Balthazar shrugging. “Partially. Think about where he was before all this, mate. He’s not going to do _anything_ to risk being sent away, not after kicking it with your soft self.”

Castiel starts to protest. “I know you’ve told him that he’s safe there,” Bal says quickly, cutting off Castiel’s words with a degree of accuracy that’s typical, “But, as I’m sure you can understand, he’s probably having a hard time accepting that you don’t intend to toss him the moment he’s idle.” 

Castiel sighs. “So… is this a good thing?”

Balthazar chuckles. “Honestly? Yes. He feels like he’s being constructive while doing something that isn’t physically taxing, and you get your purgatory of a library organized. Not to mention he’s _got_ to be working out some nesting anxiety. Win-win. Win.”

“Nesting?”

He can very nearly hear the sound of Balthazar’s eyes rolling. “Yes, Castiel. Nesting. You know, the thing the statistical majority of omegas do to calm themselves down? The super common, biology based behavior that even _I_ have been known to indulge in from time to time?”

Castiel has a sudden and vivid recollection of Balthazar manically emptying and rearranging the cabinets in the staff breakroom, and blinks. “Oh.”

“Yes, _oh,”_ Balthazar mocks, sighing. “Him doing that is a good sign, though. Just so we’re clear. You might check if he’s creating a nest in his room and ask him if he wants any throw pillows to liven it up.” 

Balthazar’s cavalier tone would bother Castiel if he didn’t know firsthand that it was all bluster. Though he’s a little prickly, Bal is easily the best resource he has in terms of relating to omegas. He cares, and cares deeply, and Castiel knows it. So he takes the man’s words as the reassurance they are and allows some of the unease to trickle out of his chest, and replies in the same light tone. 

“He has one already. I gave him that large green one you got me for Christmas last year.”

Balthazar sounds incredulous. “The one I bought to make your office seem less like it belonged to a minimalist sociopath? Didn’t you tell me it was a ‘very adequate napping companion’?” he asks, air quotes audible in his words. 

“Yes. He’s taken to carrying it with him.”

His friend is quiet long enough that even Castiel can pick up on the fact that he’s messed up in some way. “What did I do?”

“You…” Bal hesitates. “I’m not sure you did anything. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“Why? I thought you said nesting was normal.”

“It is, but…” Balthazar sounds a little flabbergasted. “Normally, it is quite ill advised to give even the average omega something that smells like an unmated alpha. He shouldn’t want to be anywhere near that thing.”

Castiel frowns. “But… Dean seems quite attached to it.” He frowns harder. “Do you think I should offer him something else?”

“No,” Bal says quickly. “No, not if he likes that one.”

“But if it smells like me–”

“Him finding comfort in your scent isn’t a bad thing, Cassie,” his friend says. He sounds mildly impressed. “On the contrary, it’s… good. Very good.”

Some feeling he can’t identify – warm and confusing – begins to grow in Castiel’s chest. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was his _scent_ Dean had grown attached to, but the idea that he has pleases him, makes him puff up with pride he doesn’t really understand. “Oh,” he says, a little flustered. “Thank you, Balthazar.”

“Any time, boss,” Balthazar says cheekily, and Castiel blushes. Luckily, Bal leaves him be. “What’s the timeline on me swinging by, you think? Can’t believe it’s already been nearly a month.”

“I don’t believe it will be long,” he says, pondering it. Dean hasn’t asked after it on his own, and he doesn’t intend to push the omega – he wants it to be Dean’s choice. But perhaps he _should_ bring it up again. “He seemed less uncomfortable when I told him you weren’t an alpha.” 

“Well who can blame him? You’re all a right bunch of knotheads,” he teases, the lightness in his tone at total odds with what Castiel knows to be the truth. He met Balthazar many years ago, and though the man had been free for a while already he’d been wary of Castiel; snappy, aggressive, teeth always bared in an unfriendly smile that had reminded Castiel of a fox in a corner. Distrusting, till Castiel had convinced him otherwise, and it had taken quite a bit of time to do so. 

His designation perpetuates the worst of the many crimes against omegas – it’s no surprise that Dean is wary. 

“Yes, thank you,” he agrees dryly. “I’d like to set him up with Benny soon as well.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Bal says. “I know having an omega with you at home is unprecedented territory, but we should stick to what we would have done if he was a traditional resident as much as possible.” 

Castiel hums his agreement, choosing not to bring up his reservations about his ability to care for Dean again. Balthazar had shot him down without mercy the first time he’d argued that he wasn’t fit to foster, and he’ll no doubt do the same now. 

“Lovely chatting with you, Cassie, but some of us have work to do, so…”

Castiel smiles. “I can take a hint. I’ll speak to you soon, Balthazar.”

“Likewise. Ciao.”

He wanders out of his office after hanging up, feeling a little lighter. Dean is not in the living room, but there are piles of books everywhere. He’d left the system of organization up to the man and it seems that Dean has gone by topic, judging by the stacks he can see. 

He’s examining the tallest in that corner of the den – gardening books, it turns out – when there’s a crash from the spare bedroom.

* * *

His heart is in his throat when he skids to a stop in the doorway, and the wave of _terror_ that hits him is so strong it makes him stagger. Dean is against the wall, curled up, hands over his neck as he cowers. There’s a shelf crumpled over next to him, a flimsy thing that was never meant to hold the number of books that Castiel had absent mindedly crammed onto it, shelves akimbo and splintered after its untimely impact with the ground. 

He has to carefully pick his way around the scattered books to get to Dean, keeping his breathing slow and even as he does so, trying and probably failing to push out some combination of pheromones that combats Dean’s frantic _terror-no-please-sorry_ scent. He recognizes those sour notes of fear in the air as the same ones that have been in Dean’s bedroom in the mornings, and wonders how far Dean is from this room right now mentally.

When he crouches next to Dean and puts a hand out to touch his back, he gets his answer. The omega flinches away more harshly than he has since that first night, a whimper clawing out of him, his scent jagged and _please-no-please-no-PLEASE._ “Dean,” he murmurs, fighting to keep his voice steady, to keep the low growl he wants to let loose inside of him and his hands to himself. “It’s alright. Deep breaths.”

Dean doesn’t seem to hear him, entrenched in whatever horror he’s flashing back to. His eyes are shut tightly, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Bloodless with tension, his hands are clenched behind his neck, covering his nape, and that sends a white hot pulse of anger through him that he has to wrestle back under control. Castiel doesn’t want to think about why this position is instinctual for him, doesn’t want to consider what’s been done to Dean in the past. 

He scoots forward, tries to reach out again on instinct, but Dean flinches away with a pleading whine – the sound tears at his heart. “Relax, Dean. I’m not going to punish you, remember? Do you know where you are?”

The omega quivers, breathing fast and shallow, and then he’s babbling, voice high and terrified and muffled by the ground that he’s pressed against. “ _Sorry!_ I’m so sorry. Please don’t – _please._ ” His words are broken, as though he already knows the effort will be futile. “I’m sorry, please don’t put me on the post, _please_ , I’ll do anything, God, please, _please_ –”

“You will not be going anywhere,” Castiel says firmly, raising his voice enough that Dean cuts off abruptly. “I would not do that to you, Dean. Not ever.” He doesn’t know exactly what Dean’s referring to, of course, but it’s clearly something horrific. He clenches his hands in his lap so they don’t reach out again. “Deep breathes. In and out. In, and out.”

It’s difficult to keep himself calm, but he tries, slowing his breathing so that Dean gets a sense of the right rhythm to follow. But he continues to cower, continues to stutter out pleas here and there, and it’s a very long time before he goes silent.

And then, like a breath let loose, his fingers loosen from his neck and slide up to cradle his head instead. His shoulders start to shake for a different reason entirely. 

He’s crying. 

Trying his best to contain it, but crying all the same, his hands gripping his hair as he shudders and turns his head away from Castiel, his forehead pressed to the wall. The sheer grief rolling off of him is enough to make Castiel’s chest ache like there’s an axe in it.

He wants to destroy everything that has made Dean feel this way. 

“Are you back with me, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes are pressed closed, but he nods jerkily. 

“May I touch you?” he asks, careful to keep his tone neutral in case Dean wants to refuse. He does, at first, shaking his head _no_ – but after a moment, he lets out a dry, pleading sob and nods _yes_ and then yes again. Castiel, torn between the savage desire to _fix_ this and to respect the omega’s boundaries, rests his hand between the man’s shoulder blades, his touch feather-soft. He can feel Dean quivering under his fingertips, can feel his emotions wracking through his skin. Can _smell_ the devastation in the air, the scent that’s morphing from fear into _shame_ and _sorrow._

He makes a decision that he desperately hopes isn’t the wrong one. 

Carefully, _slowly,_ he slides his arms under Dean’s and pulls his too-light body toward his chest. Dean doesn’t resist – makes no effort to pull back at all, and Castiel doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t want to or because he’s too scared to. He prays it’s the former. He wraps his arms around Dean and rubs his shoulders, his side, hoping to bring him away from whatever horrible place he’s in with gentle, soothing touch. 

Dean is stiff against him for a long time, but when he does move it’s to drop his hands from his head and clench Castiel’s shirt into his fists. He takes one shuddering breath, his head curled beneath Castiel’s chin, and then angles his face into his chest and lets out a harsh sob. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice thick with tears, “’m sorry, Cas.”

Castiel feels tears pricking in his own eyes, but he ignores them, pressing one hand to Dean’s shoulder and the other to the back of his head, holding him close. He shakes his head. “There is nothing to apologize for.” And he means it, whether Dean is apologizing for toppling the bookshelf or for forgetting he is safe or for needing reassurance. “Nothing at all.”

Dean’s breath is hot against his chest. He sucks in a breath. “I know you won’t – you _said_ you won’t – hurt m–” he shudders, chokes on the words. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, I’m _trying_ , but I can’t sleep, and I – My head is so messed up – ”

Castiel’s heart aches for him, a pang so deep that it feels like a dagger in his chest. Dean so desperately wants to believe he’s safe, and so clearly cannot, and it’s tearing him apart. Even now, he’s hyperventilating, his hands fisted in Castiel’s shirt, his head pressed to his chest while his body jumps and shivers at the contact, waiting for pain that isn’t going to come. 

“You can trust me, Dean,” he says, but Dean flinches like he’s been slapped.

Scent darkening with shame and fear, Dean starts to pull away, but Castiel won’t – _can’t_ – let him go, not so soon, and the omega squirms half-heartedly for just a brief moment before he goes slack again, panting against him.

“You’re safe here, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it,” he says, and the words are a promise that comes from somewhere inside his very _soul_ , a rumble deep in his chest. But Dean, inconsolable, just cries harder, his breath coming in short gasps, and it’s all Castiel can do not to shake his shoulders to snap him out of his panicked state of mind. As it is, he grips Dean closer to his chest, and rather than being reassured he starts to panic more, shaking his head and turning away as far as Castiel will allow him to go.

Guided by some instinct he cannot explain, he bends down further, exposing his throat. When he guides Dean’s nose toward the crook of his neck, the omega makes a sharp, panicked noise, attempting to pull away in earnest, terror spiking his scent again. And Castiel _can’t_. 

“Dean, _breathe,”_ he growls firmly, his voice foreign and commanding and _dominant._

Dean, abruptly, goes slack. 

And _does._

The omega inhales once, sharp and frantic. Then, after a beat, he does again, and _again,_ and then he’s surging up to press his nose on Castiel’s scent gland just behind his ear, his breath hot against the sensitive spot. It makes him shiver, something curling at the base of his spine.

Castiel hopes that he’s smelling safety. Security. Biologically, he’s telling Dean what he needs to hear, even when he can’t logically believe it. This – what they’re doing – is incredibly intimate. He has no ill intentions, but he’s still aware. This close, he could scent Dean right back, could bend just a few inches and press his nose into the scent glands at his nape. Could stroke him there, if he wanted, could make the omega smell like him. 

He doesn’t. 

He wants to. 

The primal urge frightens him.

It’s not the first time he’s touched Dean. It’s not even the first time he’s held him. However, it is the first time he’s been pushy, the first time he’s _made_ Dean do anything at all. He hadn’t meant to use his _alpha_ voice, but to be honest he’s not sure he’d have been able to stop it if he’d wanted to. Something inside of him had snapped, had not been able to deal with Dean’s panic and fear for one more second, and had taken control. 

He has unquestionably broken Dean’s trust by doing so. 

Castiel is worried that he’s gone too far, that Dean will be afraid of him anew when this is over and the shock of pheromones and fear wears off. But, in this moment of sudden stillness, he can’t make himself regret his actions. 

The fact of the matter is that Dean has had far too little positive touch in his life, and he obviously craves it, needs it in a way that Castiel has never been in the position to understand. How hellish it must have been, to need to be touched and then to be trapped in a place where the only people around to do so were the ones who wanted to hurt you? To want it so badly and yet be afraid to accept it, even from someone like Castiel, who has sworn up and down to keep him safe?

Dean seems to be having no such trouble now. He nestles in closer, pulling Castiel toward him like he’s afraid the alpha will try and move away – as though he would ever _want_ to. Castiel doesn’t have to command him again, because the omega is doing it all on his own now.

Omegas are no more driven by biology than any of the other designations, but it is true that they tend to crave physical comfort above other forms. Scenting, warmth, comfort items. The center has had good results with massage therapy, with weighted blankets. They encourage omegas to reach out and seek comfort, and he’s seen it work wonders with even their most fragile cases. So it’s not odd to him that Dean needs this – he’s carried around that pillow often enough that Castiel knows he has a deep, pressing need for familiarity and comfort. 

It’s just baffling that _Castiel_ is able to provide it, that Dean would allow him in any capacity to do so. He acknowledges and tries to push away the bizarre joy he’s feeling right now, ignoring the smug alpha inside of him that’s panting happily at the way Dean is soaking up his scent. It’s the same strange buzz of energy he got during his conversation with Balthazar; an odd, primal feeling of strength and pride. 

That part of his brain isn’t helpful, and it isn’t what Dean needs. 

His breathing has grown even and deep against Castiel, his nose still buried behind his ear, his chin in the crook of his neck. The only reason he knows that Dean isn’t asleep is the tense way his arms are still holding Castiel close. 

He waits for the fear scent, for Dean to cover the nape which Castiel is perilously close to touching, but he gets neither. His scent is still _shame_ and _sorry,_ not much better but at least far away from terror.

Unlike the last time they did this, Dean doesn’t pull himself together and retreat red faced from the room after he calms down. Instead, his body simply goes limp. He hides in Castiel’s neck when he tries to pull back and look at the omega, holding him tighter so that Castiel cannot move him far enough away to see his face. So he sits still and strokes his hair for a long time, waiting until Dean relaxes completely against him.

“Did the bookshelf trigger that?”

Dean half laughs, an awful sound. His voice is quiet and rough, worn out from crying and pleading with invisible and terrifying ghosts. 

“One time I, uh. I broke a headboard. They’d – he’d –” He falters, hands tightening and pulling at Castiel’s shirt, and Castiel rubs his hands up and down the omega’s back gently to keep him in the present. He lets out a sharp breath against Castiel’s collarbone. 

“He left me there. For _days,”_ he chokes. “I was hungry. I was _thirsty._ I didn’t know when he was coming back. So I kicked the shit out of the wood until it broke, and I slipped free.”

Castiel swells with pride and sympathy, the two emotions hitting him like twin tsunamis. 

“I didn’t even try and run, that time. I just wanted some water. He found me in the bathroom.” Dean shudders, his shoulder blades drawing together in remembered pain. “Chained me up out in the shed, arms up, feet barely on the floor, and he –” 

He chokes off, can’t finish the sentence, but Castiel can fill in the gaps when Dean reaches up and brushes his fingers against his nape, hands shaking. “It was– ” He takes a deep, calming breath, clearly trying to steer himself away from the edge.

“I thought I was gonna die, Cas.”

His voice breaks on Castiel’s name and he tightens his grip around the omega’s shoulders. “Never again, Dean. I can promise you that.” He doesn't know if the omega believes him. He hopes so.

But Dean does not look up at him. There is no moment of disbelieving joy, no spark of hope in his gaze. He simply breathes against his chest and lets the silence answer.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! You guys are so sweet with your reviews and comments on what I'm posting. I'm once again behind on replying, but I'll get there! 
> 
> Anyway... *ducks down out of the way of hurled bricks and shoes* I know this is a heavy chapter. I promise that things get better. Dean is in the process of denial, in a way, and he's sort of grasping at straws to hold on to a world that makes sense to him. He's blind to what's right in front of him, and Castiel has no idea how to handle someone that is this inherently suspicious. He's pretty trusting naturally because it has never occurred to him not to be, and he's never been in the sort of position where he HAS to be suspicious in order to be safe. 
> 
> Any-who. I hope all of you are staying safe out there. It's a crazy world that we live in!

Dean stands in front of the bed – _his_ bed? – with his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

The sun is setting. Castiel has come and gone for dinner, and the books he dumped all over the floor have been picked up and sorted. Castiel had helped him, allowing Dean to haltingly direct him to the different piles he’d created. It had felt odd, telling an alpha what to do even in the vaguest sense, but his master had all but refused to move until Dean told him where to go. 

The mattress in front of him is big. Looming. 

He’s slept on the rug every night since he’d woken in the bed the first time, never quite able to make himself find comfort above the ground. There’s been a lingering fear there, a certainty that this is all a joke, a setup, and that the instant he messed up it would all be over and he would be back where he started. He hadn’t wanted to get used to luxury. 

Still, he’s always been careful to put the blanket back in place before Castiel comes upstairs for breakfast, in case the alpha thinks he’s being disrespectful by refusing to sleep there. 

Dean steps forward, muscles taut, and he hates himself for his fear. He’s afraid to sleep in a fucking _bed._ He knows it’s pathetic, but it doesn’t change anything. Swallowing, he takes another step forward, then another, until the comforter is brushing his legs. 

His heart is pounding. _Baby steps, Winchester._ He turns, sits down on the edge of the mattress, hands shaking as he presses them to his thighs. It’s as soft as he remembers from the first time. Still smells fresh and clean. Biting his lip, he scoots himself back until he’s an island in the middle of the bed, his arms curling automatically around the pillow that still smells faintly like Cas.

The blanket around him is as big as an ocean. He might drown if he isn’t careful. Unbidden, memories of Hell pound like a heartbeat in his brain, flashes of pain around his wrists and neck and between his legs. 

He screws his eyes shut. But, of course, that means he can see those alphas all the more clearly, can nearly _feel_ Alastair’s claws trailing up his ankle and calf and the inside of his thigh. So he opens them instead and stares at the light green patterns on the blanket and the soft glow of the bedside lamp that Castiel turned on when they ate dinner together. Listens to the gentle hum of the ceiling fan, to the low murmur of the television downstairs as the alpha watches what he thinks must be the evening news, the same thing he does every night. 

Slowly, his breathing evens out, his heart stops trying to claw its way out of his chest. With every uneventful second that passes, Dean unclenches, his shoulders relaxing in increments. It helps that he’s already exhausted, his stupid little freak-out session from eariler today enough to make him want to sleep for a week. He leans back until he’s resting against the headboard, the pillows plush behind his back. 

The walls don’t collapse, he doesn’t catch on fire. He’s sitting in a bed, and nothing bad is happening to him. He huffs out a self deprecating laugh and rubs his hand over his mouth. What a goddamn pussy he is. 

He can still smell Castiel on his clothes, far stronger than the stale smell of the pillow. Honey, coffee, rain, and something electric that reminds him of how the hair on his arms used to stand on end right before a Kansas thunderstorm. It doesn’t bother him that he smells like the alpha, and _that_ doesn’t make sense because it should. Even before all of this happened to him, he’d always thought he’d be independent, sneering at the idea that he needed an alpha to take care of him or mark him. 

But the lingering reminder of Castiel is as soothing as it always is. It smells like safety. Dean buries his nose in his sweatshirt and inhales, his eyes hooding. He wonders if Castiel can still smell him, too. He’d certainly nosed against the man’s scent glands enough. The memory makes him grimace. 

When push comes to shove, he’s no different than any other omega. His dad would be disgusted with him. Probably would have earned himself a backhand if his old man had seen him being such a coward. But the ghost touch of the alpha’s palm on his skin takes his thoughts off of John pretty quickly. 

He trails his fingers over his neck, up and down in a self soothing motion. And his fucking hand is shaking.

It’s dawning on him that Castiel might actually be the person that he’s claiming to be. 

That thought scares the shit outta him. He just isn’t that lucky – never has been. His luck is _garbage._ From the day he presented, his life has spiraled from bad to worse. It seems like a fantasy to consider the idea that he might be done with all of that. That Castiel really has no other reason to help him other than that he wants to be kind, that his generosity isn’t a cover for some betrayal that, coming from this alpha, will hurt way more than anything Alastair ever did to him. 

He forces his eyes closed like Sam used to slam the trunk of the Impala, pissed off that they’d once again had to pack up their shit and move. And of course, that makes him think about his little brother’s weight next to him in the back seat of the car, of his head on Dean’s shoulder after he inevitably conked out an hour into the drive, of Sam’s face and Sam’s laugh and… 

He scoots the heavy quilt out from under himself and wriggles beneath it, his throat tight. 

Dean tries to force his mind to go quiet, but he can’t. It’s just so strange to lay on something soft. Even the rug has been a luxury – with Alastair, he’d slept on cracked and creaking wooden floors, the chain on his collar barely long enough for him to get horizontal. His arrangements with previous owners had been just as bad, if not worse – one of the earlier ones had literally made him sleep in a dog crate, hardly enough room for him to curl into a ball. 

The man had put a 17-year-old kid in a fucking _kennel,_ and he probably slept like a baby despite it. Anger flickers inside of him, but it dies as quickly as it manifests. 

No point. 

Wriggling down into the sheets to get comfortable, Dean tries to let his exhaustion take him out of his head. Tries to get a good night’s sleep for the first time in days, tries not to think about Alastair’s reptilian gaze or Sam’s hazel eyes. He wants to let himself take for granted that this comfort is really for _him,_ that there is no sinister plan behind giving him these luxuries. 

That the alpha downstairs really does give a shit about him. 

* * *

He’s almost successful. 

But, predictably, he can’t let it go. Laying here reminds him too much of the other times he’s been in a bed for any length of time, none of those memories pleasant. It makes him think of grasping hands and pressure on his neck and pain in his wrists, of the always terrifying and painful initial _thrust_ into him, of the putrid scent of an alpha’s lust. And, worst of all, it reminds him of heat sickness, of the wrenching pain in his gut, of the screaming certainty that he needed relief no matter the form. 

His stomach rolls. He turns to his side and brings his knees up, hugging them to his chest. He can still hear their voices, can feel the _pull_ of the commands they used to give him just to watch him squirm and fight. 

And then a fear – a dark, skittering thing with glowing eyes and a shark-toothed smile – begins to creep through his brain like cancer. Like rot. 

_Castiel_ had ordered him, a few hours ago. 

He’d told Dean to do something, and Dean hadn’t hesitated for a second before complying. Hadn’t even _thought_ to hesitate. His alpha had used _that_ voice, the rumbling and persuasive tone that itched a spot in his brain the way nothing else ever has. 

Technically, he had just told Dean to breathe. But in reality, he had ordered him to _stop fighting._ To give up, to give _in_ to his demand that Dean scent him.

And Dean _had._

It hadn’t bothered him, at first, because it had calmed down the jackrabbit beating of his heart, had helped him fight his way back to the present. Shit, he’d been _grateful,_ so fucking relieved that Castiel would want him to stop being afraid that he would go to those lengths to help him. 

But now, as he lays in a bed that doesn’t really belong to him and rests his head on a pillow that still smells faintly like his master, the reality of what happened sinks in. 

What else would Dean have done, if his master had ordered him to? What else would he have listened to without a second thought, in that state of mind? 

What else _will_ the alpha order him to do? And how sure is Dean that he would even think to fight it? 

The thought terrifies him. Alphas have never shied away from the power they held over him, had gleefully given him order after order just to watch him struggle and pant against his own pitiful, biological urge to roll over with his tail between his legs. Dean has mostly been successful at resisting, in the past – he’s been able to ignore orders, no small feat with how tired and hungry he’d always been, with how hard those alphas had always gripped his nape.

But not Castiel’s order. He hadn’t even _wanted_ to. 

On some level, he knows it's because his brain has decided that he can trust the alpha. After all, he’s feeding Dean the right foods, giving him medication, keeping him clean. He’s letting Dean’s injuries heal. He hasn’t hit Dean even _once,_ not even a slap. Hasn’t even threatened to.

He’s making him feel safe _,_ making him feel secure, dismantling each of his carefully cultivated fears until Dean is vulnerable and unsuspecting. Hell, he even has Dean _telling_ him what scares him, has Dean crawling into his lap and latching on like a little kid, begging for comfort. 

Dean’s body locks up, his heart starts to pound. The thin little veil of safety he’s draped over himself frays into tangled threads. 

He’s so _stupid._

Of course this is what the alpha wants, all alone in his house with no family. No partner. 

No kids. 

He scrambles off the bed, sweat springing to the back of his neck as he backs away from it, horror clawing around inside of him as everything clicks into its sickening place. 

Castiel wants – He– 

In the bathroom before he can even finish the thought, the dinner Castiel prepared for him hits the toilet bowl loudly. He retches until there’s nothing left in him and he’s choking on bile, vision blackened and sparkling at the edges. 

Castiel wants him to go into _heat._

A _real_ heat, one triggered by feelings of safety and comfort, one that can only happen if he’s healthy and happy. 

Castiel wants to _knock him up._

Why the fuck else would he go to these lengths to rescue Dean? Why _else_ would he waste his time fixing a broken omega, rebuilding him from the ground up? He’s doing the equivalent of fattening up the goose so he can chop its damn head off at the end of the season. Prepping Dean like a pig for slaughter. 

And Dean is letting him.

Another wave of nausea hits him and he retches again, hand covering the scar on his stomach protectively. He’s such a fucking _idiot._ The alpha obviously doesn’t know about what Alastair did to him to make that plan impossible, and Dean’s not sure what’s worse – realizing that Castiel wants to use him as a breeder, or thinking about what he’s going to do when he finds out he _can’t._

And then, like his thoughts set off an alarm somewhere, his master is knocking on the door. 

“Dean? Are you alright?”

The alpha’s tone is worried, so genuine that it makes Dean’s head spin. Castiel is either a really good liar, or his deception goes so deep that he actually _does_ care about Dean. But, of _course_ he would give a shit – if Dean kicks it, or figures it out, the alpha’s got to start this process all over again with another broken omega who is too desperate for kindness to realize what’s happening right in front of their face. 

Dean coughs the last of the bile from his mouth and flushes, hands white and trembling as he does so, and he tries to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do. 

“Are you ill?”

He nearly retches again. Swallowing thickly, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and finds some sad little spark of courage left inside of him. 

“I’m – I’m okay,” he chokes. “I think I ate too fast.”

God, he hopes he sounds convincing. Hopes that the fear that Castiel is no doubt smelling is par for the course at this point, hopes that the alpha doesn’t know Dean’s figured out what’s going on. He has no idea how Castiel will react, but he knows it won’t be good. 

Terror sinks its claws into his spine. Somehow, he’s going to have to pretend he doesn’t know. Trembling, he tries to force his scent back to something approaching normal, but he fucking _can ’t –_ he’s eaten too little, gotten too few hours of sleep to be able to hide himself away like that. 

Castiel’s voice is uncertain. “Alright. Let me know if you’d like some anti-nausea medication,” he offers, sounding unsure of himself. “Would you like me to bring you up some crackers? Maybe a ginger ale?”

 _Jesus._ He closes his eyes, grips the toilet bowl. “Uh, no. No thanks. I’m just going to shower and go to sleep. If that’s okay.”

“Of course. Remember, you have Pamela’s card. You can use my cellphone to call her, if you’d like.”

Castiel’s footsteps retreat after that, and Dean slumps down, tension and adrenaline swirling with nowhere to go in his body. Shakily, he pushes himself up and turns on the shower, sitting on tile with his head in his hands. 

* * *

Dean is quiet at breakfast, his posture stiff and his eyes averted. Castiel frowns at how little he eats, his plate still mostly full of hashbrowns and eggs that he pushes around listlessly. 

He shifts on the carpet and wonders again how Dean is able to kneel and sit here day after day. He sniffs the air cautiously. There’s still that sour fear scent in the air, a little stronger than it had been, and he frowns at the extra layer that hadn’t been there yesterday. “Are you still feeling ill?”

Dean jerks, and Castiel gets the feeling that the omega had just been a million miles away. “Uh. Yeah, I guess. My stomach hurts.”

“I could give Pamela a call so she can come give you a checkup.”

His scent sours even more, and Castiel could kick himself – of course Dean isn’t comfortable with being seen by a doctor. He’s not terrified, not like the first time he’d seen Pam, but, understandably, he’s still nervous. 

Dean picks at his plate. “You don’t need to. Think I’m just not used to all this food.”

Castiel nods. “Perhaps I should still be cooking things that will be a bit more gentle on your stomach.”

The omega just gives a noncommittal shrug, and Castiel is forced to either push harder than he thinks he should or let it go. 

He lets it go. 

The trend continues through the day and into the next, and by the time they finish the next morning’s breakfast together Dean is hardly eating anything at all.

Castiel had thought that the moment after the bookshelf had been a breakthrough. Clearly, he’d clearly been wrong. It’s like Dean has drawn into himself, further reversing the progress they’ve made over the last few weeks. He doesn’t come downstairs at all anymore, doesn’t touch the books. He hardly even looks in Castiel’s direction. And all the while, there’s that fear scent, driving him slowly crazy as he tries to work out what’s wrong so that he can _fix it._

But his instincts are likely what got them here in the first place. He knows this has everything to do with that stupid, knee-jerk order he’d given Dean. Knows that he fucked up, because Dean is scared of him again, and they’re back to square one. He wants so badly to go back and time and stop himself. Wants to reassure Dean that he’s safe here – he’s just not sure how to do that in a way that will actually convince him. 

“Dean, is there something wrong?” he asks eventually, unable to fully keep the worry – or guilt – out of his voice. “Is there… can I do something? You seem…”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he looks over at Castiel almost purposefully, like he’s making himself do it. It strikes Castiel suddenly that he’s been spending a lot of time with Dean, hardly giving the omega a moment to himself. No wonder he’s uncomfortable, unable to relax – he’s constantly on guard, even if he doesn’t want to be. He’d been mortified after his panic attack, and he probably feels very vulnerable even now – especially after Castiel abused his trust by ordering him to do something, even if the act itself had been to help him.

“Would it help if I gave you some space?”

He tries to keep his tone even, to make sure Dean doesn’t think he’s offended by the idea. Dean looks surprised. “You don’t have to do that,” he says blankly. But he doesn’t say no. 

Castiel tries not to let that hurt him. He can’t take this personally – after all, there’s a reason that new omega residents at the center don’t spend time around alphas until they’re ready. He’s expecting a lot out of Dean, being his only company. “I think it might… make you more comfortable. I’d still like to bring you meals, if that’s okay?”

Dean blinks owlishly. Some of the fog clears from his expression – in its place is puzzlement. “You still want to feed me?”

Castiel knows his scent has soured by the way the omega flinches, by the way his hand twitches up like he’s going to protect his neck. Dean stumbles over his words trying to appease him, and that just makes him feel worse. “I just – I meant, if I’m not eating with you –” 

“Although I enjoy your company,” Castiel interrupts stiffly, “it is not a requirement for you to continue to eat. This is not _Beauty and the Beast._ ”

The reference appears to go right over Dean’s head, because his face doesn’t even twitch. Castiel sighs. “You can still ask me for anything you need, Dean. I mean that.” He stands, stretches, tries to cover the hurt he’s feeling. It’s irrational, since he brought this on himself. “I’ll be in my office most of the time.”

Dean just nods silently, his hands around his still-full plate. He hasn’t eaten a bite.

* * *

Castiel does what he promised, and doesn’t see Dean for more than a minute at a time when he brings up his meals. 

He’s not angry, exactly. Dean would know that smell, could recognize it from a mile away, has been conditioned to make himself scarce or small when he gets a whiff of it. But the alpha's mouth does tighten at the corners when Dean hands him his plate from lunch, still mostly full. 

He dumps most of the food in the bathroom trash after that, and the alpha seems pleased when he hands him back an empty plate.

Days pass. It feels like months. He’s not hungry, though he should be. He can’t sleep – he’s _tried._ But something in him is broken. Some traitorous, _stupid_ part of him wants _Ca_ _s,_ wants his scent again. Wants to be held. He’d had just a tiny taste of security and he’s already addicted, _jonesing_ for it. He holds the stupid green pillow to his chest and breathes in the ever fading scent of the alpha and is actually comforted by it _more_ than he’s sickened. 

He hates himself. He knows, he _knows_ what his master wants him for, but here he is, pining for the third night in a row as he shivers on the ground. He shouldn’t be cold; the room is warm, the blanket is warm, the pillow is warm. But he freezes anyway. 

God, he wanted so bad to believe that this was real. 

He dozes. Never for long; he gets half an hour here or there before nightmares wake him. He jolts awake and _knows_ that Alastair is at the door to buy him back. Or that Castiel is pinning him down and cinching the collar around his neck like a noose so he can drag him back to the auction house and demand a refund for a defective product. That the once gentle alpha has cuffed him to his bed, his achingly kind touches turning sadistic and greedy. 

None of those things are ever true once the fog clears, but it doesn’t stop him from shaking or puking or crawling into the shower for the third time that night, eyes dull, chest aching. 

This morning, when he gets up to go to the bathroom, he nearly trips over a little pile of books in front of his door. He stares at them for a long moment before he can make sense of what he’s seeing, has to blink hard through the tears that are suddenly blurring his vision. 

He’d give _anything_ for this to be a genuine gesture – would cut off a damn leg for a reality in which Castiel is actually offering him books to read because he cares about him and not because he’s trying to bribe him or lull him into a false sense of security. He’s angry, almost, looking at the innocent little pile of novels that Castiel picked out for him – furious and hurt that it can’t be real, furious at himself for thinking, even for a moment, that it could be.

He should have known better than to hope. Every little gesture Castiel has done for him and continues to do for him just hurts all the worse now. 

Dean stands in the doorway and stares at the books on the floor and resists the urge to kick them as hard as he can. Instead, he steps over them, swallowing. He can’t hide up here forever. He needs to get his shit together and start acting like he had been before he figured all this out. Castiel is going to get suspicious, if he hasn’t already, and even though Dean’s scared of what’s going to inevitably happen he _doesn’t want to leave._

How pathetic is that? He knows he’s here to be bred. To be Castiel’s pretend mate just long enough for a kid or two to be pushed into this fucked up world. But he _still_ doesn’t want to go. Until Castiel figures out his plumbing is no good, he’s safe. His master can’t hurt him, because then all the progress he’s made up until this point will be for nothing. So if he fakes it, he can buy himself time. 

It feels like he’s giving up. Maybe he is. Five years ago, he would have been packing a bag and planning his route through the woods, counting his lucky stars that Castiel was dumb enough to take off his collar. Now he’s just trying to piece together how he can stay. 

He tries to act normal. Really, he does. He goes downstairs, attempts to sort books into piles, or at least _look_ like he is. He makes himself keep moving when he hears the office door creak open. When the alpha comes out with a smile and tells him how glad he is to see him back downstairs, he tries to make eye contact and smile back. 

Castiel doesn’t buy it. He knows he doesn’t. His frown gets bigger every time he sees Dean. That, in turn, makes Dean more anxious, which makes his master even more suspicious. It’s a spiral that’s going to end with him in a world of pain. 

He thinks he might be able to last a week, like this. 

He doesn’t.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG warning for this one, folks. Check the notes at the end for a summary if you're worried about triggers. I don't want anyone hurt by this story.
> 
> This chapter is... yeah. Ouch. This one hurt to even write. It has been a long time coming, though, so I hope it lives up to your expectations. I hope all of y'all are doing well. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also - Holy shit I can't believe I forgot to drop in the link! Winterlogic drew some beautiful fanart for this fic that, and I am not joking, literally made me cry. You can check it out at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thirdleaflogic or by looking for thirdleaflogic on tumblr. I've never gotten fanart before and it blew me away!

Castiel bumps into him in the hall. 

It’s probably innocent. He probably doesn’t know what Dean’s been thinking, what he’s figured out. What he’s hiding. But when he rounds the corner to go down the stairs and slams into the alpha, who’d been coming up them, Dean bounces back so hard that he lands on his ass. 

A little flustered, Castiel’s mouth opens into a small round shape before he blinks and reaches toward him. “I apologize. Here, let me –” 

Dean flinches back from his outstretched hand so badly that he slams his shoulder into the wall. Castiel stares down at him with wide eyes, frozen in place. “Dean?”

He can’t. He  _ can’t.  _ He screws his eyes shut and takes a harsh, panting breath, and then he’s skittering back to his room. He just wants to hide. He doesn’t want to be touched, and he  _ does  _ want to be touched – even now, Castiel’s smell is at least as soothing as it is sickening, and because he’s panicking he wants to be  _ comforted.  _ His stupid bitch brain is screaming at him to cozy up to his fucking master and scent him and touch him – never mind that the alpha, the only person since he was sixteen that has ever  _ once _ bothered to comfort him, is the one _ making him panic _ . 

Castiel follows him into the room, because of course he does, because  _ nothing _ really belongs to him here no matter how much his master had pretended otherwise. “What’s wrong?” His voice is almost  _ scared,  _ and it would make Dean laugh if he wasn’t too busy considering the best way to escape and find his way through the snow, considering all the ways he might bite and claw to get the alpha away from him, considering – 

“Dean!”

He freezes despite his terror, and realizes abruptly that he’s crowded himself into a corner, knees up in front of him. There’s a familiar snarl on his face, one he’d thought he’d lost in Hell, but if feels  _ good  _ here, it feels right. He’d been stupid enough to let this alpha fool him into thinking he wasn’t going to be used, but now he knows. And he’s terrified – so fucking  _ afraid  _ – but he’s not going to go down easy. He never has and he never will. 

He feels himself look up and stare Castiel in his eyes, feels himself baring his teeth at the way he steps closer and crouches down like he’s going to reach out. “Don’t fucking  _ touch  _ me,” he snarls, and it sounds a lot fiercer than he feels. The alpha flinches, eyes widening in something that looks hilariously close to hurt. 

“I – okay, I won’t,” he says slowly, and Dean’s sickened by his tone, by the thought that Castiel almost  _ had _ him. Almost fooled him into thinking that this isn’t all an act, a scheme. God, his dad was fucking right. He’s an idiot, naive even after everything. Even  _ now _ , Castiel is convincing enough that Dean nearly swallows his next words into himself. But he can’t stop now. Can’t make himself. He’s so angry, so  _ hurt,  _ and he has no idea what to do with the intensity of the feelings inside of himself. No idea how to deal with the cruelty of kindness with an agenda.

“If you think you’re – if you think you can _con_ me into – into feeling safe here, into being your – your –” his voice is too high, too tight, too fucking _terrified_ and not nearly strong enough, “into your fucking _breeder –”_

He’s panting now, breath weak and fast in his chest, and he can feel the scar across his stomach burn like Alastair put it there yesterday instead of years ago. That gnarled line should be a comfort, now, ironically – even if he hadn’t wised up, Castiel wouldn’t have been able to lure him into a pregnancy. 

Predictably, a wash of fury floods the room, and Dean’s rage disintegrates into pure, stomach twisting fear; he flinches back and covers his head, knowing that alphas love to make him bleed when they’re pissed and that they’ll aim for whatever’s most convenient. But instead of boiling over, Castiel’s anger simmers, then fades until it evaporates completely. In its place is something else, something softer and sadder that wraps around them both until Dean can’t stand it anymore. 

He peeks his head out from under his hands. 

Castiel is staring down at him, his hands limp at his sides. He hasn’t moved forward. “You think I want to push you into a heat. You think I want…” He covers his mouth like he’s nauseous. “You think I want to get you  _ pregnant?”  _

Dean doesn’t answer, because it’s obvious. Why else would Castiel bother to do any of the things that he’s done? Dean’s heard stories about slaves that were taken in by masters like this, omegas who went all Stockholm-syndrome and became willing puppets for their alphas. He knew he’d never be like them – but now he has to wonder how true that is, if he’d come this close to letting Castiel get to him. If he’d let the alpha order him around like he had.

Castiel’s face twists, and he takes another step forward – and Dean’s breath catches in his chest because he’s waiting to get snatched off the ground and beaten or  _ worse. _ But instead of crowding him, instead of hurting him, Castiel pauses, hesitates… and then steps  _ back.  _ And then back again, and again, until he’s pressed into the opposite wall, his hand still covering his mouth. 

And all at once, the enormity of how much he just fucked up hits him. 

How stupid is he? He  _ can’t _ get knocked up – he knows it, and Pamela had confirmed it. So even if Castiel had tried later on, he wouldn’t have succeeded. Dean has just thrown his only chance at living a safe life for  _ any _ length of time away, simply because he couldn’t hold it together for five fucking minutes. 

Now, Castiel is going to send him back. He’s going to sell him and probably try all over again with a new omega, one that might not be as quick as Dean to reject this venus flytrap life Castiel has tried to trap him into. Worse, maybe he’ll keep him around as a fucktoy, one he doesn’t have to be nice to anymore, and all that kindness and softness from before will be gone. 

Or maybe he’ll just kill him and be done with it. Ain’t like he’ll get much for Dean anyway, as used up and ugly as he is.

It’s too late to take it back.  _ Far _ too late to apologize. So he just squeezes his eyes closed, sits there holding his breath, and waits. Waits to be recollared and sent to another center, waits for another nameless faceless trainer and another month of torture before being sold again. Waits for pain. 

When Castiel finally moves, Dean flinches into himself with a sharp intake of breath. But, rather than lunging forward, his master stares at him. 

“Dean, I…” 

Dean doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want this man to use his name like he’s a person, doesn’t want to hear that soothing rumble. Not when it’s a lie. Not when he’s still so desperate to believe it. And apparently his master understands that, because he closes his mouth. 

And he steps out of the room. 

Dean has no doubt that it’s to get the collar. He should be running, right now, but he can’t. Days of sleepless nights and constant anxiety have him so exhausted that he wants to curl up right here, now that it’s all out in the open and he no longer has to pretend to be okay. He wouldn’t last ten fucking minutes out in the snow and he knows it. So he just clutches his knees and waits for it to end. There aren’t even any tears in his eyes. He feels broken, dashed against rocks. Blank.

Maybe it’s better that he’ll be somewhere more familiar, whatever happens. Somewhere where people don’t treat him like he’s worth something – because he isn’t, and he knows it. 

He’d come way too close to forgetting it.

Castiel returns to the room a minute later, and Dean turns his head away, clenching his fists in his lap so he doesn’t try to cover up his neck. He won’t show the man he’s afraid, won’t let him know how deeply he’s dug into his soul. Won’t give him the satisfaction. 

He can feel his master standing in front of him, but he can’t make himself move. Can’t even raise an arm to defend himself. When Castiel holds something out toward him, he flinches so hard he knocks his head into the wall, but he doesn’t look up. He just squeezes his eyes shut and waits.

“Dean, it’s just… it’s just your paperwork.” Castiel sounds  _ miserable;  _ Dean doesn’t have the headspace to figure out why. “I promise.”

Dean dares to open his eyes, and sure enough, there’s a file held in front of him. It’s thick. He’s never gotten more than a passing glance at it when he was being sold to someone new; not that he’d wanted more than that. There’s things in there he never wants to think about again. Castiel must sense some of that, because he takes one look at Dean’s face and lays it gently on the floor instead. 

“I haven’t read it all,” the alpha says, and his words sound odd. A little flat. “But I have looked at the intake sheets. I think you probably should, too.”

Dean’s eyes flicker up to his master quickly, nervous, waiting for his fist or shoe to lunge out, but Castiel isn’t moving toward him. Instead, he moves away. Sits down on the bed that Dean had, only a few days ago, dared to try and sleep in on his own. 

Trembling, he reaches out to the file, hating himself for being afraid of whatever’s in there. He holds it like a dead thing, far away from himself, lips pressed together. Then he flips open the front cover. 

He’s met with a photo, glued down to the first sheet. He nearly doesn’t recognize himself. He’s 16 in it – freshly collared, head shaved, a defiant jut to his chin that he doesn’t have anymore, might never have again. He looks so brave in this picture. So stupid. 

This Dean had no clue what was coming. 

No idea that in just a few short hours he’d have a fake alpha cock shoved so far down his throat that he’d puke, no idea that he’d be forced to keep going until his stomach was empty, no idea that after that he’d be starved until he started kneeling, started begging, started  _ presenting _ . No idea that he’d soon be so exhausted and broken down and afraid that he’d crawl on his knees and lick food out of a bowl and do whatever they fucking told him to before going hungry for another night, before another shock or slap or days of bright lights and loud noise that didn’t even allow him to sleep. 

The Dean in this photo had only been thinking about protecting his family, and hadn’t yet understood the price he would have to pay for their safety. 

His eyes skitter over the details, revulsion clawing up his throat as he takes in his sexual status, his potential _ talents  _ listed out for buyers to see. His original purchase price, and, added on later, what they ended up selling him for. And Jesus, they hadn’t even gotten the date right – so little care in the world for a dirt-poor omega kid that the day he signed his  _ life _ away is off by a friggin’ month. 

He has to look away, tears burning in his eyes at the memory of those first few weeks, the terror and the heartbreak and the realization that this was his  _ life,  _ now, and that he’d  _ asked  _ for it. 

Hands shaking hard enough that he can hardly direct them, he thumbs through the rest of the papers, looking for the last tab of the bunch. He doesn’t want to be reminded of all the steps between the first and Alastair, doesn’t want to see his gradual decline into brokenness. When he finds it, he forces himself to flip to the page, forces himself to look. 

_ This _ Dean looks much more familiar. 

He only vaguely remembers the officers who’d taken him into custody snapping this photo, the ghosts of their hands roughly arranging his head at the proper angle, the harsh white light above the camera. This was just a few hours after he’d been taken from Hell. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t been fed or even given water, and it shows. The bags under his eyes are dark as bruises, his cheeks hollow. His hair is longer here than it had ever been when he was free, curling under his ears and laying flat and dull against his forehead. 

He looks dead. Or, at least, he looks like he wishes he was. There’s  _ nothing  _ in his eyes here, no anger, no hatred. Not even fear. Just an exhausted sort of acceptance that his life is not his own, that he has no say in what will happen to him. Because he doesn’t.

Was this what Castiel had seen when he’d bought him? An easy target?

He swallows, hatred for himself clawing into his chest, and makes himself look at the rest of the file. There is the purchase price, so much lower than the first go-round. There’s his height, his _weight,_ which is somehow less than it’d been at sixteen. His sexual status, changed from UNTOUCHED to USED _,_ words so cold and clinical they make him sick, as accurate as they are. The date of his sale to Castiel – and fuck, it’s been ten – no, almost _eleven_ years since he first signed that contract. It feels like a lifetime _._

And then, under that, something that changes everything. 

**_Fertility Status_ ** **:** STERILE

* * *

Dean will never forget the first one who had him. 

To this day, he doesn’t even know the man’s name. Some tall, vicious alpha with skeleton thin hands and eyes so murky they’d looked yellow. He’d been old enough to have been his dad, probably even older. 

That hadn’t stopped him. It hadn’t stopped him from staring into the kennel they’d kept Dean in and grinning with too white, sharp teeth. Hadn’t stopped him from inspecting Dean like a piece of meat, from grabbing his chin with ice cold hands and laughing when Dean had tried to bite him. The handlers had pinned him against the ground and had drugged him immediately – apparently, yellow-eyes hadn’t wanted to fight for the right to take him. 

Instead, he’d woken up in the man’s home with a gag in his mouth, his wrists tied in front of him, arms numb under the weight of his body. Woken with a hand gripping his hair and forcing him to bend. And when he’d finished – when Dean had sobbed so hard he’d nearly puked, had begged and pleaded and then had given up on fighting at all – he’d just sold him back.

It’s not even the worst thing that’s happened to him. But it had been the first time when he’d truly understood what he was to these people. Nothing but entertainment. Nothing but a wet hole to use and then dispose of. 

Yellow-eyes had taken his omega-virginity trophy and then dumped Dean back at the auction center to be bought by someone with lower standards. And he had been. Over, and over, and over. 

It had been what he’d thought would happen this time. Hadn’t expected anything less. Had thought, really, that it was all he was good for anymore. 

But instead, he has this. 

* * *

His heart freezes in his chest for a suspended moment, then it restarts and  _ pounds,  _ the sounds in the room whited out by the blood rushing in his ears. 

Sterile.  _ Sterile.  _

Castiel had already  _ known.  _

And that. That means that this – the kindness, the generosity, the  _ safety  _ he’s found here, all the things that Castiel has given him for no good reason – that’s all real. There’s no ulterior motive. 

It’s  _ real.  _

He’s shaking, tears blurring his vision, relief and self hatred and  _ guilt  _ rushing out of him all at once. And even though he’d rather crawl straight into the dirt, he looks up and faces the alpha in the room. Stares Cas in the eyes, mouth trembling and body numb, has to meet his gaze after the horrible thing he just accused the man of. 

“You… you knew. This whole time, you knew?”

Despite it all, Cas still looks kind when he speaks. His voice is quiet, earnest. “I knew before I even got to the auction house, Dean.”

Dean can’t make himself talk. Can’t make himself apologize, or beg, or any of the things experience tells him he should be doing right now. He just stares at the alpha, takes in the tired slump of his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes and mouth, the way his large, gentle hands rest in his lap. The filter of fear that made the man seem so big and imposing is gone, now. In its place, Cas looks very small, and very human. 

Castiel’s eyes track him as he shakily stands, as he steps forward to the bed. He doesn’t stand in return, just looks up at Dean with those gray blues, his emotions guarded. But Dean understands, now – what he’d taken for frustration or anger is  _ guilt,  _ pouring out of the alpha’s expression and his scent. 

_ Cas _ feels guilty. 

When he goes to his knees, it’s not out of fear or because he’s been trained to. It’s because he’s sorry, and he’s  _ relieved _ , and he’s so desperately grateful – and he knows no other way to express those things to an alpha that has had every chance to hurt him, and has not. 

He’s so close to Castiel right now that the alpha’s knees are on either side of his head. In the back of his mind he’s remembering all the times he’s fought tooth and  _ nail _ to get out of this exact position; but this time, there is no hand on his collar or fingers squeezing his nape, no shock stick in his ribs, no metal ring or vicious threat holding his mouth open. There’s only his own cowardice keeping him silent and still. 

_ His _ guilt.

“I’m.” He chokes on his words, presses his fists down into his thighs to control himself. “God. Cas, I’m so sor–” 

He can’t even get the words out before Cas is hauling him to his feet and into his chest, arms wrapping around him. He relaxes into the alpha’s embrace –  _ lets  _ himself relax, lets himself curl his head forward and press his face to Castiel’s collarbone, his guilt caught in his throat. His hands catch the fabric at the back of the alpha’s shirt and hold on tight.

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel says, voice rough like he’s been trying not to cry, or maybe like he already has been. “I’m – I can’t imagine the state your mind has been in, thinking  _ that’s  _ what I wanted. Dean, I’m so sorry.”

Dean chokes out a laugh, bitter and quiet. He can’t believe that  _ Castiel  _ is apologizing right now. Can’t believe this ridiculous man and his kindness. “It’s not your fault that I’m – that I’m so fucked up that I… I accused you of… _ ”  _ He can’t make himself say it, even now. Can’t repeat those horrible words. He feels dazed; dizzy with relief, sick with shame. 

“I cannot fathom the things that you have been through that made that possibility a realistic one,” Castiel says quietly, and this close, Dean can feel the alpha’s legs shake as they stand in the middle of his bedroom. “Nor the multitude of ways in which I have done wrong by you and failed you. I can’t blame you for your caution. For assuming the worst of me.”

Dean feels something sharp in his throat and his eyes at that. He gives it all up in a rush, the need to explain himself burning through him. The need to reassure Castiel that it was nothing he did. 

“I can’t – I  _ couldn’t _ believe it was real. Why the hell would I be that lucky?” He draws in a shuddering breath. “But I should have. I should have just – just trusted my gut,” he says, shuddering. “Shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I told you right at the beginning that I would  _ earn  _ your trust. I meant it.”

He laughs, shaky but honest, and takes in lungful after lungful of the alphas calming scent, the warmth of coffee and honey wrapping around him like a blanket. It makes his head spin. He’s pretty sure that if Cas wasn’t holding him up right now, he’d be on the ground, and not by choice. 

Dean takes a deep breath. Slowly, carefully, he pushes the alpha back further onto the mattress. He sits down, looking up at Dean with a fragile question in his eyes. 

Dean follows him. Follows an  _ alpha _ onto a bed. Willingly. But he can think of no better way to show Castiel that he means what he’s about to say. He sits on the edge of the mattress and stares the alpha in the eyes before he moves closer, perched by his side with his legs tucked under him. And, hesitantly, Cas draws in a breath and holds him close. Lets him breathe against his neck, lets him take in his alpha scent.  


From the safety of Castiel’s chest, the alpha’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, he begins to speak. 

“You’re – I’ve never met an alpha that’s anything like you, Cas. Didn’t think I ever would. I… I think I… ” The words wrench out like he’s digging shards of glass out of his chest. “God, Cas, I  _ trust _ you. Do you know how much that scares me? You smell safe. No one’s ever smelled like that before, not to me. Not since I was a kid.”

The shaky breath that Castiel lets out sounds like it has the weight of the world inside it, and any fear Dean may have been harboring about being mocked for his vulnerability disappears. “You’ve  _ no _ idea how glad I am to hear that.”

And then Dean can’t hold back anymore, can’t contain his relief. He wraps his arms around Castiel too and lets tears fall from his eyes, tired and silent, until he can feel the alpha’s warm hand on the bit of his spine beneath his nape, far enough down to be safe without Dean ever having to ask him for that. His thumb gently strokes there, warm even through the plush material of the hoodie, and he feels a shiver run through him. 

The relief of the alpha’s touch is nearly too much for him to handle – a week without it has made him crave it all the more. And with it comes a bone deep weariness that drags him down, makes sleep possible for the first time in days. 

“‘M really tired, Cas,” he murmurs sometime later, when the seconds have stretched into minutes and the air around them feels lighter, when the sun has been set for so long that the moon is bright in the sky. Castiel nods against him, unwinding his arms and laying Dean down onto the mattress gently, and Dean feels cold without him there. 

Later, he’ll blame sleep deprivation for what he does next. Castiel slides off the bed, tucks the blanket around Dean in a methodical way, and then makes to leave. 

Dean’s hand snakes out of its own accord and snags the alpha’s wrist, holding tight. 

Castiel looks down at him with undisguised surprise, features soft in the light of the moon reflecting off the snow outside. 

“Stay?” 

The question is shaky. Needy. He feels like an idiot for asking – he’s not a baby, he doesn’t  _ need _ Castiel to sit with him till he’s asleep. But he asks anyway, because he wants Cas there and has wanted him there for days, has been pining for the scent of security to wrap around him like a quilt while he tries to avoid nightmares. For once, his need for comfort is outweighing his shame at having to ask for it. 

Castiel doesn’t hesitate. He nods, just once. Squeezes Dean’s hand and sits on the edge of the mattress, leaving a careful foot of space between them. “I will.”

And he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - Rape and sexual abuse of a minor (Dean is 16 and then 17) is described in fairly heavy detail here. It's fast, but it's... it's pretty bad, so I thought I'd give you a head's up. There's a bit about Dean's initial training at the auction house in the paragraph after "This Dean had no clue what was coming." Then, in the little blurb between the line breaks, there's a pretty nasty flashback of the first time he was raped. You can skip that all together and still understand the chapter.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So little plot progression happens in this chapter that it felt quite short to me, but it's actually one of the longer ones that I've posted. It's not as exciting as last chapter, obviously, but I feel like it was necessary to get a look inside Cas's head and see where Dean is as well. It's also a lot lighter than last chapter... even I needed a breather after that one. Next chapter is Dean's introduction to Balthazar - I know lots of you guys are looking forward to that! I have it drafted now, and I'm polishing it, so it should only be a few days before it's posted. 
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you that are leaving reviews - it means the world to me. You guys are so sweet, and it fills me with joy every time I get to read how you feel about what I write. And some of you are really digging deep and analyzing things at a level only I thought I'd ever get to about my story - it's just *chef's kiss* beautiful! I love to hear your predictions and your thoughts! 
> 
> Stay safe out there!

Castiel has seen Dean sleep many times, now. He’s seen him curled up on the floor of his office, the little blanket covering him from head to toe, the green pillow pressed against his chest. He’s seen Dean nap for  _ hours,  _ seen him turn and mumble and frown, seen him nuzzle a little more into the quilt or the pillowcase. Has seen sleep descend over him, has seen him nod off and jolt awake in turn.

But Castiel has never seen Dean this… calm. 

He stares down at the omega with his heart in his throat. The lines that normally score his face are gone, smoothed away by the first truly peaceful sleep that he has gotten in far too long. His chest rises and falls smoothly and slowly. 

His hand is loose around Castiel’s wrist even now. He’s been careful not to move. Careful to leave his other hand draped over Dean’s, so that he can feel the man’s steady warmth. Who is reassuring who, he isn’t sure anymore. 

The difference between  _ this  _ and Dean’s normal state of being is comparable to a kick in the chest; getting a glimpse of how relaxed he  _ should  _ be just amounts to one more thing for Castiel to be guilty about. 

He squeezes Dean’s hand, just a little. He doesn’t stir.

When he rises from the bed, he takes care not to jostle the mattress as he rests Dean’s arm in a comfortable position, and as he creeps out of the door he shuts it softly behind him.

He slumps against the wall across from Dean’s door and slides to the ground. He lets out a shaky breath. One he feels like he’s been holding since Dean tumbled to the ground after a careless movement from Castiel at the top of the stairs, holding since Dean ran from him like prey from a predator.

Dean had thought… 

Stomach twisting painfully, he closes his eyes and grips his knees. Dean had truly believed that his only reason for helping him was to use him as an  _ incubator. _

He wishes that it wasn’t so realistic of a possibility. But they’ve come across more than one omega who’d been used and then discarded for that exact purpose. 

Not many alphas are patient enough to play the long game that something like that requires, so those cases are, thankfully, few and far between. But it still happens – especially these days, when free and unclaimed omegas are getting harder and harder to come by. Too many of them married off before they were ready, too many gifted like dowreys rather than courted and wooed and  _ loved _ like human beings. Too many pressured into the slave trade of fertility centers by circumstances outside of their control.

Cas doesn’t know personally, of course, since he has never helped foster before. But he has learned from his conversations with Balthazar and Pamela that those omegas are some of the most broken when they arrive. There were few things that hurt a person like taking away their child. Few things more cruel. Yet Dean had fully expected that to be his fate – or had at least expected Castiel to try and  _ make  _ it his fate. 

He regrets the anger he’d doused the room with when Dean had first accused him – he’d lost his temper, lost his _mind_ at the implication that he would ever do something so heinous. He’d been outraged that anyone could think that of him, let alone _Dean,_ who he’d thought had trusted him. He had accused Castiel of trying to hurt him in the worst way imaginable. 

Then, he’d taken a breath and actually stopped to consider what Dean’s perspective would be. How deeply his scent had been torn between fear and anger and desperate grief, how he’d looked up at Castiel like he’d hung the moon only days ago and then had rapidly spiraled ever since. How he  _ had  _ abused the man’s trust by ordering him to do something he hadn’t wanted to do, regardless of how good his intentions had been at the time. 

Dean has been through so much. He’s  _ seen _ so much. It’s no wonder that he couldn’t fathom the idea that Castiel was helping him just because he  _ wanted _ to, because it was right. He should have known Dean would be suspicious, should have anticipated that he’d need proof. He realizes that, foolishly, he’d expected Dean to be so relieved that he was no longer being mistreated that he wouldn’t question anything. 

He’d underestimated the man’s intelligence and  _ far _ overestimated his ability to trust. Leaving him alone to process his thoughts had seemed like the best option, but really, he’d been letting Dean stew in his own paranoia. Letting him dig himself into a grave using rationalizations that, in hindsight, seem disturbingly reasonable.

His heart had been in his throat when he’d gone downstairs to get Dean’s file, half of him expecting to come out of his office to see the front door wide open and Dean gone. But worse, somehow, Dean had stayed exactly where Castiel had left him, his eyes blank once more, his scent reeking with the same sour smell of resignation that he’d had on the ride home from the auction house. It had been undercut by sorrow. By the sick scent of dashed hopes. 

Then Dean had read the file. He’d  _ understood,  _ finally, and all it had taken was a little proof. He’d been a fool to think that a man who has gone through the things that Dean has would ever take him at his word alone – there are good reasons for Dean’s wariness. 

He wishes fervently that he’d bothered to give Dean those details early on. It would have saved them both the heartache of that confrontation, and would have spared Dean days upon  _ days _ of sick anticipation. He’d rationalized that showing the omega would do nothing but hurt him, remind him of the things he’d lost – but he’d forgotten that, no matter how difficult it might have been to see, that it is information that Dean is entitled to. It’s his life _.  _ And Castiel’s cowardice regarding the details of that file had nearly cost them everything. 

_ This  _ is exactly why he’s never fostered any slaves. Communication isn’t usually something he struggles with – other than perhaps being  _ too  _ blunt – but as an alpha that has grown up with considerable privilege, he’s never had to deal with the fears of an omega. Let alone the fears of an omega  _ slave. _ It's obvious that despite the fact that he owns a center that rescues and rehabilitates omegas, he has no idea what that process actually entails. 

Now, more than ever, he’s glad that Jody, Balthazar, Benny, and Pamela are the ones who actually run the place while he sits in the background and handles the finances. Glad that he’s never had to do this before, glad that no omega has had to suffer under his care before Dean. 

There is no way Castiel is going to put him through something like this again. It’s high time that he meets Balthazar and has his welcoming session with Benny, and while he isn’t going to invite them over unannounced, he is planning on gently pushing Dean to think about it. He can’t continue to be the only stable thing in Dean’s life – not when the omega cannot fully trust him, cannot fully relax around him, if only because of their respective designations. 

Really, he should be trying to get Dean a spot at the facility. Should be trying to get him away from Castiel at all costs. It would be the best thing for him. 

But the thought of doing so makes his chest ache harshly, makes something in his stomach swoop like he’s staring over the side of a steep cliff. So, guiltily, he shoves the thought away, unable (or at least unwilling) to deal with all the troubling, unfamiliar emotions it elicits. Not after everything that’s already happened tonight. 

He scrubs at his chin and, despite his better judgement, can’t help but cup his hand around his nose and mouth and take in the scent of Dean again, sweet and warm like pastries and apples and cinnamon. His  _ true _ scent, coming through even with the lingering tendrils of his fear. It strikes Castiel that tonight is the first time he’s ever really smelled it. 

Weeks here, and only now does Dean trust him enough to be even a fraction of himself.

He’s still reeling at the fact that Dean had allowed him into his  _ bed  _ and asked him to stay there for any length of time, and all he can think right now is that it shows how strong the young man is, how resilient. And how badly Dean must need a comforting touch. 

Put in Dean’s position, he’s not sure he’d be brave enough to ever be that vulnerable again. 

Not with someone like him.

* * *

Dean wakes up in the bed, and for the first time in a very long time, he isn’t afraid. 

The reason why isn’t obvious, at first. He lays there, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused and his heart beating slow and steady. There is none of the dread or tense fear of the last few days. There’s just… stillness. 

When he remembers  _ why  _ he’s lucky enough to feel this way, his throat closes with emotion. 

Castiel is  _ real. _ He has to keep reminding himself of that, because it doesn’t seem like he can be. But somehow, Dean has stumbled onto a master that not only doesn’t want to hurt him, but actually wants to  _ protect  _ him. For no good reason – at least not one he can understand. Clearly.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until little flashes of color appear in the blackness. To say that he feels stupid is an understatement. 

But there’s no use lingering over that. Or so he tells himself, swallowing as he tries to tuck the guilt he’s feeling into some dark corner of his brain where he doesn’t have to look at it. Suspicion is in his blood. Pessimism, too. Probably gifts from John, in one way or another – genetic or taught, he’s not sure, but they’re instincts that always seem to be on the money. 

But for once, he’d been wrong. The world has, apparently, decided that he has suffered enough. At least for now. He’s not naive enough to believe that this oasis will last forever – good things in his life never really do. But he’s not going to think about the day where all this will go away. 

Instead, he’s gonna do his best to repay Cas for his kindness. 

He’s not sure how, exactly, he can begin to thank the alpha for plucking him out of literal hell and treating him like a human again, but he has to try. It’s only fair. Cas is going out of his way to deal with a fucked up omega that is going to do nothing but make his life harder. The least that Dean can do is try and make it  _ nice _ for him. Try and make it worth his while, however he can. 

He’d already known that Cas lived alone here, but now it concerns him for a totally different reason. Is the alpha lonely? In need of someone to talk to, to keep him company? Dean doesn’t think he’d make a very good conversation partner – he’s too dumb for that – but maybe he can at least  _ try.  _ If Castiel doesn’t like it, prefers him to be silent, he can do that too. 

Dean takes a deep breath, his eyes still firmly closed. He’ll clean, he’ll cook – shit, there’s plenty of ways he can use his  _ body _ to make the dude feel good, if that’s what Cas ends up wanting. And though the idea doesn’t bring him any comfort, he’s more than willing to use himself that way if it means pleasing the man. It’s not like he has any modesty left anyway. 

Whatever his alpha wants, he’ll get. 

Dean knows that it's the  _ definition _ of pathetic that he feels that way, but it’s different than it’s ever been before. Castiel doesn’t  _ expect _ anything from him, isn’t asking for anything, and somehow that means that for once in his life Dean wants to hand over things willingly. Hand over  _ himself  _ willingly. 

He wants to be a good omega. Too bad he’s got no friggin’ clue how to do that. 

Finally, he rolls himself out of bed and stands there for a moment, looking at the rumpled sheets and comforter with slightly blurry vision. Cas had sat here, last night. Had sat on his bed with him and _held his_ _hand_ until he’d fallen asleep. He’s a little bit surprised, honestly, that he even survived that – it’s been so long since he’s been comforted he figured he’d incinerate on the spot. And for a moment, he considers the possibility that it was a dream; but then, he flexes his hand and feels the ghost touch of the alpha. Smells the warm air, cut through with sunlight and floating dust motes and the faint scent of summer rain, and knows that it was real. 

Dean takes a longer shower than he normally would, forcibly wrapping his mind around the fact that really he  _ can _ without the risk of being beaten for it. He even takes the time to shampoo his hair, long enough now that he can almost tug at it, and runs his hands down his sides and legs and revels in the fact that he can do that without any pain. There are still bruises here and there, especially on his wrists and neck and below his waist, but they’ve already healed more than they ever had in Hell. 

He hasn’t been this safe or this healthy in years. 

Again, the knowledge that he has Cas to thank for it makes him yearn to show the man he’s grateful. To please him. He feels childish at the thought, but Dean knows he’s been that way since he was young. His loyalty has always been easy to win; show him just a hint of approval, and he’ll bend over  _ backwards _ trying to get it again. 

His cheeks flush at the thought, but he can’t pretend it isn’t the truth. A slut, in more ways than one. 

Luckily, alphas tend to like that. 

Castiel is already awake when Dean finally pulls himself out of the warm shower and moves downstairs. He’s at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, already dressed for the day save for his socked feet – right down to a blue tie. For once, Dean doesn’t hesitate before he steps closer to the alpha and drops down to his knees. 

Cas jumps about a mile into the air. “Oh. Good morning, Dean.” He holds the paper in his hands like he’s forgotten what he was doing with it, staring down at Dean blankly. 

“Mornin’,” Dean says, and wills himself to relax his shoulders, his face. He knows that he doesn’t have to be scared, but it’s taking more work than he’d like to remember. On some level, he’s still braced for a blow. 

Trying to settle himself, he takes in a breath of Castiel’s honey warm scent. His heart slows almost immediately. He wants to lean in a little closer, so he does, and he’s struck by the urge to rest his head against the alpha’s knee– 

Uh. 

Dean’s brain snaps back online. What the  _ fuck?  _

Before he has time to pick apart whatever bullshit  _ that  _ was, Cas interrupts his thoughts. “Did you sleep well?”

“Y– yeah,” he says belatedly, shaking off his confusion. He tries to communicate his gratitude for that fact by ducking his head a little lower. “Thank you.”

He can hear the shuffle of the newspaper as Cas sets it on the table. “I didn’t think you’d be up this early, or I’d have prepared breakfast.”

Dean is still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that the alpha wants to continue to cook for him, even though it’s been several weeks of him doing so. So, even though his stomach rumbles at the thought, he shakes his head. He really needs to work on being less trouble than he’s been. “That’s okay. I’m not hungry anyway.”

He  _ is  _ hungry. Of course he’s hungry. But he’s gone way longer than this without food and just because he’s grown soft doesn’t mean that he can’t go back to the way he was before. 

He glances up at Cas when he’s silent for a moment, and the alpha is frowning. Shit. He already fucked up. Cas can tell that he’s faking, obviously – he’s never been in less control of his scent than he is these days. His eyes fall to the ground and he can feel nerves starting to tingle up his spine, can feel himself getting scared even though he’s sure there’s no reason to be. 

Pretty sure. Almost positive. 

The alpha moves forward, reaches out, and it’s a damn near thing but Dean manages not to flinch. But instead of slapping him to remind him of his place, Cas hovers his hand above Dean’s shoulder. And he waits.

Dean looks at his hand, then at him. And then it clicks – Cas is actually waiting for  _ permission.  _ Permission to touch him, something he doesn’t need and shouldn’t even want to ask for. But he is. The alpha’s blue eyes study him, squinting when Dean lets out a nervous breath. 

He nods. And Castiel’s hand is warm and heavy where it settles. 

“Are you certain?” the alpha asks, glancing at the refrigerator. It’s kind of him, because he really could just call Dean out for lying. “How about something simple? Oatmeal?”

Dean is quick to nod his head – and why wouldn’t he? Does Castiel really expect him to turn down kindness, or disagree with him? He’s happy to see that the alpha looks pleased by that. 

Cas nods, squeezes him once, and then moves away. Dean makes a conscious effort not to follow him when Castiel rises to his feet to start cooking – he’s surprised by how much he wants to. By how cold his shoulder feels now. 

He watches as the man fills a pot of water and sets it on the stove, as he methodically pulls things out of the cabinets. There are a few minutes of what might be called a comfortable silence, if Dean wasn’t frantically searching his brain for some way to thank Cas. 

“Dean, could I propose an idea?”

Dean blinks, startled back into the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“I’d like to know more about you,” Cas says, and Dean can tell he’s thought about these words for a while because they sound sort of rehearsed. “About your preferences. What you would like to do with your time here.”

Dean feels a little nervous. He’s not sure why, exactly, but Cas picks up on it right away, his tone softening like he’s talking to a frightened animal. Dean doesn’t love that, but he can’t say the description doesn’t fit. “You wouldn’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable.” 

Dean’s mouth drops open a bit before he snaps it shut. “I… what?”

The alpha scoops a cup full of oats into the water and stirs them around – counter clockwise for three long, slow turns, clockwise for two. Then over again. “I just mean that I don’t expect you to answer every question I ask simply because I ask it.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Dean is honestly confused. Castiel  _ owns  _ him. He’s kind, kinder than Dean had ever dreamed one of his masters could be, but still. Dean belongs to him. Slaves do as they’re told – it’s the cardinal rule. So of course he’s supposed to answer if Cas asks him a question. 

His confusion, much to his dismay, seems to disappoint the alpha. He’s frowning down at the oatmeal, brow furrowed. “Sorry,” he says quietly, but it doesn’t help. Cas just looks down at him and frowns some more. 

His stomach sinks. He’d wanted to make Cas happy that he’s here. It’s been about five minutes and he’s already failing miserably. Maybe it’s better if he just shuts up after all. His mouth has always been more trouble than it was worth.

“I know that you expect me to have certain… standards for you,” Cas says slowly, setting the wooden spoon across the top of the pot gently. “Because I hold your contract, I mean. And I know I didn’t say it before, but I do apologize for… for ordering you, a few days ago. I didn’t intend to, but it’s no excuse.”

Dean blinks. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Cas apologizing for that is the  _ last  _ thing he’d ever expected – it hadn’t even crossed his mind. “It’s… it’s okay,” he finally says, but it comes out sounding a little too much like a question to be convincing. 

Castiel grimaces. Stirs the water. 

“I want to make it clear to you that I don’t expect – or want – you to act like a slave.”

The words should probably hit him hard; he knows that. But they blast around him like a strong wind, powerful but not really touching him. He doesn’t understand what Castiel is saying to him because it doesn’t make sense. How the fuck is he  _ supposed _ to act? He  _ is _ a slave. He’s been a slave for over a decade. He doesn’t know how to  _ not _ be that – no matter how much he’s tried to pretend otherwise, he is, first and foremost, someone else’s property. 

All he wants to do is what Cas says. That’s all. But he doesn’t know how to respond to this insane thing his master is asking him for. Because no matter what he wants, Dean can't change what he is.   


Castiel takes his silence for the answer that it is, and sighs a little. He doesn’t push that insane request anymore, and Dean is so grateful he could cry. But he does say, “I want to get to know you as a person. Your likes and dislikes, your interests. I will try my best not to pry into topics that may be uncomfortable for you, but if I  _ do,”  _ he stresses, “please. Tell me that I’ve overstepped. That’s all I ask.”

Cas doesn’t seem to understand that it’s  _ impossible  _ for him to overstep. He is the alpha, he is the master. His word is law. But it’s clear that this is what he wants from him, so he swallows and says, “Okay, Cas.”

He can’t help himself, of course – always has to dig his grave a little deeper. “But, just so you know, I’m… I’m not very interesting. Ain’t much to me,” he says, aiming for light but coming off more nervous than anything. 

Cas looks down at the oats as he thinks of what to say. “I very much doubt that is the truth, Dean,” he says, and it sounds like he actually believes it. “If nothing else, knowing more about you will keep something like what happened last night from happening again.”

Dean flushes. He gets what Castiel is saying, but it’s still difficult to wrap his head around. He wants to push, to explain to Cas that he isn’t really worth getting to know. That he’ll work harder to not act like a little bitch in the future, that he’ll get his shit together. But, for some reason, Dean doesn’t think the alpha would be happy to hear those words; so, instead, he nods. Slowly, haltingly, but he does nod. 

And thank God, Castiel looks pleased by that. He feels a little swoop of relief that he’s finally managed to do something right. 

“I think it would be fair to go back and forth,” the alpha says, sprinkling something into the pot and stirring it a bit more. “I ask, you ask, if you’d like. Does that sound reasonable?”

Dean doesn’t have any idea what he could possibly have a right to know about Castiel – or what could be so interesting about _him_ that Castiel wants to hear about it – but he nods anyway. 

“Okay, then. Let’s start with something simple.” He frowns, looks around the kitchen. “What kind of toppings would you like on your oatmeal?”

Dean lets out a shaky laugh. That hadn’t really been the type of question he’d expected. Even so, his good humor evaporates when he finds that he’s having trouble answering it. 

What  _ does  _ he like on his oatmeal? 

“I’m just happy to have food,” he says honestly. It’s the truest response he can give. 

Castiel’s face folds into that same little frown. “But that isn’t a preference.”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He’d actually been trying to be honest, there, but it turns out there is a wrong answer to these kinds of questions. “I mean, I don’t know, Cas. I’m good with whatever you give me.”

The alpha just looks sad about that, and Dean doesn’t understand why. Shouldn’t he be pleased that Dean is grateful, that he’s not demanding anything more than what he’s already been given? That was something a lot of his previous masters wanted – Dean at their feet, groveling because they had not hurt him as badly as they could have. There were times when he’d done it, too, much to his shame. Because, in some sick way, he  _ had  _ been grateful, if only to be able to rest for a while. 

But Castiel isn’t looking for that. Sounds to Dean like he’s looking for him to be normal, and not a fucked up shell of a person. 

Dean bites his lip, looks around the kitchen from his place on the ground. “Um. What are my options?”

The lines around his face ease just a little. “Well, there’s fruit. And sugar; brown or white, and honey. There’s cinnamon, too. Or any combination of those.”

Dean swallows. “Fruit?”

“Are you asking, or telling?”

Dean falters. “I… I think I’d like fruit,” he says, a little firmer this time, and Castiel smiles. 

“Strawberries, blueberries, or bananas?”

Dean swallows. “Strawberries?” he says, mostly at random. Castiel nods like he’s said something meaningful and serious. He pulls the carton out of the fridge, rinses them in a colander, and begins deftly cubing them up. 

“How about some sugar?” the alpha says, glancing back down at him. “I’m afraid the strawberries are a bit tart. They’re out of season, apparently.”

It’s a lot easier when Castiel takes control, so he just nods. “Sure, Cas.”

He turns back around and sprinkles the sugar in, and smiles down at the bowl. His eyes crinkle when he hands Dean his food. And he smiles when Dean says, “Thanks,” his voice just a little above a whisper.

“Thank  _ you, _ Dean.” 

It’s weird to be thanked at all, let alone for something like this, but Dean feels a little burst of pleasure inside his chest when Cas looks at him like that. Like he’s done something good. For once, he decides not to question it, and just rides the high. 

Cas prepares a bowl of his own (bananas and cinnamon, which Dean files away for some unknown reason) and returns to the table. He doesn’t sit back in his chair, though – just plops down on the hard tile and digs in. 

Dean stares at him for a half second before letting out a little huff of laughter. Cas looks up at him, a question clear on his face. 

“I just… this is real,” he says dazedly. “You’re real.”

Castiel’s gaze softens. “Yes.”

Dean scrubs his hand across his mouth. Looks down at his bowl. He’s supposed to ask Cas a question, now, and while he thinks it would probably be smart to ask about something as equally bland as topping preferences, he really can’t help himself. 

“Why me?”

Cas doesn’t even blink. Dean gets the feeling he’d been anticipating that question. He sets down his bowl carefully, mulling his words over before he speaks. “Your file caught our attention,” he says slowly. 

Dean’s stomach sinks. “Why?”

Fiddling with his shirt sleeves, Cas avoids his eyes when he answers. “We knew you would be… would probably be sold again. Quickly. And the scouter was worried that it would be to somewhere... similar. To where you’d been before, that is. Most likely with an auction-lot of other slaves.”

Dean is filled by a flood of self disgust and guilt so strong that it makes Cas look up sharply in response. 

There were so many other slaves with him in that auction house, just in the little hall his cell had been in. He’d heard them. Heard the crying – the wailing, desperate sobs of the new slaves, the hitching and muffled tears of the old ones. The yelling and threatening of the ones still in denial about their fate and the broken pleading of the ones who knew better than to think they’d receive any mercy. So many who needed help, so many that could actually have a  _ chance _ at healing. 

Dean is too fucked up to ever be fixed, and he knows it. But here he is, no fresh bruises on his body, no fear of going hungry hanging over his head. Sitting here, on the  _ floor,  _ with an alpha that he actually trusts not to hurt him. As if he’s done anything to earn those things.

Castiel must see the direction of his thoughts, because he adds, “We help as many omegas as we can, Dean. But sometimes we have to prioritize.”

“I’m not a  _ priority,” _ he argues reflexively. 

His master’s face hardens minutely, and Dean tries not to let his hands start shaking – tries to remind himself that he’s safe. He drops his eyes down to his bowl anyway. “How much longer do you honestly believe you would have survived, under conditions like that?”

The question stings. He’d survived four, almost five years in Hell, and six years before even that, hadn’t he? What can  _ anyone _ do to him that Alastair or his other masters hasn’t done already? His jaw tightens, and his stubbornness is as familiar as it is dangerous – he looks up to meet Castiel’s gaze. 

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “There are about a million slaves who deserve this more than me.”

The alpha sighs. “It’s not about deserving or not deserving. Ideally, there would be no slaves at all,” he says simply, not at all seeming to realize he’s flipped Dean’s stomach upside down with the words. “For now, all we can do is help those who need it most, wherever we can.”

Dean swallows. The bowl of food in his hands – the food he’s done nothing to earn, that he didn’t even have to cook himself – is warm. He can’t help but think of a dozen other slaves he’d been kept with over the years, every single one of which he’d give this to over himself. 

“Survivor’s guilt,” Cas argues. “That is what you’re feeling, Dean. You cannot change what’s happened to you so far, but you can certainly take charge of your future.”

There’s a blaze of determination in the alpha’s gaze, enough of it that Dean knows he won’t be able to change his mind. As nice as it is to have someone claim that he’s worth something, he knows the truth. Knows better. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, casts his eyes down where they should be, and takes a bite of his oatmeal so he can’t say anything else. He can tell Cas doesn’t believe him because he waits a few seconds to speak again. 

“Have you given any thought to when you’d like to speak to Balthazar? I truly think he would be able to answer many of your questions.” The alpha sounds earnest – hopeful, almost. He’s probably pretty friggin’ desperate to find someone who can understand Dean’s bullshit. As though anyone can. “It would be good for you to get a perspective from someone of your own designation, I think.” 

Dean swallows. He’d all but forgotten about the mysterious omega coworker because of his little nervous breakdown. He can’t deny, though, that he’s curious about the man. He doesn’t think that Balthazar can fix him like Cas seems to think he can, but he’s still curious. So he shrugs. “Whenever, Cas.”

Cas nods seriously, already pulling out his phone. “It could be as soon as this afternoon, if you’re willing. He’s eager to meet you.”

He nods, ignoring the trill of nerves at the thought. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about dividing this chapter into two, but I couldn't find a split I was happy with. So... enjoy a slightly longer than normal chapter, slightly earlier than usual! 
> 
> I'm not 100% happy with it but I think it's as good as it's gonna get. I ended up adding almost 2k to this chapter on a total whim, but I think it all tracks (let me know if it doesn't, lol). If anything about this chapter is confusing, just tell me... T-T I'm running off of very little sleep these days. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope that Dean FINALLY meeting Bal is at least a little like what y'all were hoping for!

Balthazar is quite the character. 

Bobby would swiftly and firmly have classified him as a “peacock”, if Dean remembers right. When Cas opens the door to his three sharp raps, the man struts into the house with swagger and confidence that Dean can’t really wrap his head around, movements so much like an alpha’s that he finds his hackles instantly raised. 

But there’s no reason for him to be afraid – not of an omega. And, despite the lack of stereotypical omega head-ducking and shoulder-hunching, Balthazar definitely is one. He’s tall and lanky, but has a slightness and softness around his face that Dean immediately recognizes.The man is older than him, older than Castiel too, with graying blond hair and wrinkled crow’s feet. 

“It’s bloody freezing,” the man grumbles, stamping his feet on the doormat to knock off bits of ice. He’s got a British accent of some sort – Dean finds that it suits him and his flashy outfit exactly. He unwinds his scarf and hangs it next to his pretentious looking peacoat by the door, the dark fabric dusted with bits of snow, and his sweater underneath has a deep v-neck. 

His scent wafts over. It’s softer than Cas’s, a little like oranges, and Dean can feel himself relax as soon as he gets a whiff. He could get up like a normal person and shake his hand – probably should do that, if Cas really does want him to act free. But, like the slave he is, he hangs back in the den, kneeling on the carpet. He crosses his arms over his chest and worries at the fabric of his hoodie, regretting his decision to leave his pillow upstairs. He’d been too embarrassed to keep it down here. 

“How was the drive?” Cas is asking, and Balthazar throws up a dismissive hand. 

“Awful, of course. Those backroads plus this blasted weather make for quite the challenge. Remind me, again, why you felt the need to purchase a house in the middle of nowhere?” 

Cas had told him he could sit on the couch, if he wanted. He’s glad he didn’t, ‘cause now he can see this situation for what it is. 

The shape of the faint scar around Balthazar’s neck is familiar. It’s faded but still noticeable against his pale throat. Dean recognizes it as the type of mark that has had a long time to heal, but will never really go away. 

Lots of slaves have scars like that. He’s got quite a few himself.

He tells himself not to be disappointed. At least Balthazar isn’t wearing an obvious collar – maybe he’s got a wrist tag or something – and at least he’s greeting Cas like he isn’t afraid of him. In fact, he claps him on the shoulder like he’s an equal, striding into the house and looking around as though  _ he _ owns the place. Dean wonders if the omega belongs to his master, too – a past project?

His eyes flick over the house and then land on Dean, and his eyebrow arches. Glancing over at Cas, he jerks his head in Dean’s direction. “Thought you said he was ready to meet me,” he says, not at all hiding his skepticism. 

Dean flushes scarlet, dropping his eyes to the floor. Even from all the way over there, the other omega can apparently scent his fear. He hates it, hates how little control he seems to have over his emotions and his scent these days. 

Then again, he guesses it may not be his scent that’s giving him away. Could be the fact that he’s worrying a fucking hole into his hoodie with how nervous he is, or that he can’t seem to make himself keep eye-contact. 

“I proposed the idea, and Dean agreed,” Cas answers, but he sounds a little worried. 

“Right,” Balthazar drawls, rolling his eyes. “Because  _ that’s _ an accurate gauge on what the kid actually wants.”

Cas doesn’t have any response to that at all, and Dean feels guilt burrowing into him. He doesn’t want to make Cas look bad, or like he forced Dean to do this. For some reason, it matters to him that Balthazar doesn’t think less of the alpha. Dean himself has made that mistake already.

Cas deserves better. 

So he forces himself to look up and meet the other omega’s critical gaze. And when Cas comes into the den and stands next to him, obviously preparing to do formal introductions, Dean presses firmly into his leg, driven by the need to prove himself unafraid. 

Apparently it proves  _ something, _ because Cas looks down at him in open surprise, and Balthazar’s eyebrows raise in tandem. Dean holds his head up as the omega’s eyes wander to Cas’s hand that has, as if by instinct, landed on his shoulder, and up to Dean’s face. Whatever he sees there makes a slow smirk curl the corners of his mouth. 

“Balthazar, this is Dean. Dean, Balthazar,” Cas rumbles. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder gently. 

Dean doesn’t say anything, and Balthazar’s smirk widens into a grin. “Charmed,” he says, and there’s something a little smug about it that Dean doesn’t like. 

“As I’ve told you, Dean,” Cas says, looking down at him, and Dean is definitely listening but it’s hard to focus with the alpha’s _hand like that,_ with the warmth of his leg pressing through his clothes, “Bal is our expert on rehab. He’s just here to help you get settled, and to help you understand what happens next a little more clearly.”

Dean nods just a fraction of a second later than he should, and he can see Castiel’s forehead crease in worry. His eyes flick to his own hand on Dean’s shoulder, as if he’s only just realized it’s there. 

“Quit hovering over the kid,” Balthazar snipes, and Dean shoots him an honest-to-God  _ glare  _ before he can think better of it. 

Cas ignores Balthazar completely, and it’s satisfying as hell right up until he asks, “Are you comfortable here alone? I’d like to give you two some time to speak privately.” 

The answer is very much  _ no.  _ But Dean looks up at Cas’s hopeful face, feels the eyes of Balthazar on them both, and finds himself nodding. “Yeah.”

So with one last squeeze to his shoulder, Cas lets go. Dean tries not to follow his warmth or his touch like he very much wants to, forcing himself to stay where he is, and in the span of a few heartbeats they’re alone in the den. Cas is in his office, Dean’s still kneeling, and he’s about to have his first real conversation with another omega in  _ years _ . 

It's a little surreal. Like Castiel, the man doesn’t even try to sit on the couch – instead, with a quick look in Dean’s direction, he primly folds himself onto the ground with an ease that can only come from practice. That, along with the scar of course, make it very clear to Dean what Balthazar is.

He can’t stop looking at the mark around the man’s neck and the air is getting increasingly awkward as he sits here and says nothing.

“It isn’t polite to stare, you know.” Dean jerks his eyes up, a flush covering him, but Balthazar waves his hand in a dismissive way before he can apologize. “Relax, kid. I’m pulling your leg. Don’t hold back on my account – let’s just get those pesky  _ obvious _ questions out of the way, hm?”

Dean takes a breath. “How long’ve you been a slave?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “I  _ was  _ a slave for nearly fifteen years.”

Dean blinks at him, and after a second the words catch up to him. 

“You – you’re free?” 

There’s only a few things a scar like the one Balthazar has can come from. Dean had assumed that someone had shocked him one too many times, but now he wonders if the scar is something Balthazar gave himself. Cutting slave collars isn’t something that happens very often for a reason. 

Balthazar smirks. “Well aren’t  _ you _ an observant one, Winchester?”

Dean starts again at the sound of his last name. He knows, now that he’s read it, that it’s on his paperwork that his owners get when they buy him. But Cas has never used it, and it’s been literal years since he’s heard it. Balthazar goes on, giving him no time to sort through the feelings he’s suddenly flush with. “I am free, yes. Have been for nearly a decade now.”

Dean stares at him, reeling. “How?”

The omega’s smug demeanor has faded, at least a bit. In its place is something suspiciously close to sympathy – his gaze is a little too knowing. “That’s a story for another time, I think.”

Dean nods blankly. Dude’s got a right to his privacy, after all. But he’s still dazed. He knows, theoretically, that it’s possible to be freed, but he’s never seen anyone actually  _ do  _ it. 

Balthazar studies him for a moment, his gray eyes slightly calculating. But rather than continue down the dangerous path of  _ that  _ conversation, he nods at Dean’s piles of books that are scattered around the living room. It’s only today that he’d really started working on them again, tentatively asking Cas if it was okay (and it had been an emphatic  _ yes, of course  _ from the alpha). 

“Settling in, I take it? It appears you’ve got quite the sorting system.”

Dean flushes again, looking down. Now that he’s bothering to look, the leaning and half finished piles of books look more than a little unhinged. Balthazar probably thinks he’s fucking crazy. “Uh… yeah. I mean, I did. Haven't really touched them in a few days.” He tries to force a laugh, tries to pretend like he doesn’t care. “Stupid, right?”

“No.”

The short and blunt way he says it makes Dean look up in surprise, taken aback. “It’s normal. And it’s a good thing.” He grins. “Better this than a mental breakdown, anyway.”

That startles a short laugh out of Dean, and he’s still reeling from that when Balthazar goes on. “Speaking of – Cassie told me he thinks you’ve been having trouble sleeping. Nightmares?”

He says it in a way that makes it plain he knows from personal experience, and that comforts Dean, somehow. Makes it sting less when he nods.

“That’s normal too, you know. Hate to break it to you, but those aren’t going away any time soon.” He studies Dean. “Dr. Barnes could prescribe you something to help you sleep.”

Dean can’t help but shudder at the thought, and Balthazar just nods like he expected that reaction. “Right. Benny’s better at this sort of thing than I, but some meditation might do you good. Exercise, too, when the weather warms up some.”

“How’s running laps going to help me with nightmares?”

Balthazar rolls his eyes. “You’ll be more tired, you dolt.”

Dean huffs at that. It’s been a long time since anyone has talked to him like this – not like an animal, but not in the fragile, careful way that Castiel speaks to him, either. Just like he’s a person, an equal. Despite his earlier… well, he’s not even sure what to call it. Territorial-ness? Whatever. In spite of his posturing a few minutes ago, he already likes Balthazar, and the possibility that he might be looking at an ally or even a  _ friend  _ is strange. 

He’s gone so long without even  _ speaking _ to another omega. Alastair kept him all alone. The whipping boy of the whorehouse, leashed to a bed in his room that he wasn’t even allowed to sleep in. It’s not that the other slaves had had it easy – when he’d first been bought by Alastair, he’d been forced along with them to clean or serve when they weren’t being  _ used.  _ As awful as that had been, though, at least he’d had the brief companionship of people of his designation; other omegas to scent or soothe or be soothed by. 

When Dean had been  _ awarded  _ the terrible honor of becoming the lowest of the low – when he’d become the toy for the  _ sadists  _ to play with – he’d been isolated from everyone but those sick alphas completely. Instead of an off-duty slave passing out his portion of food, he’d had Alastair tossing down his bowl; instead of two or three other omegas to rest with and commiserate with, he’d had only himself and his demons, if not a  _ customer  _ or Alastair himself. And that had gone on for years. 

He slowly sits on the ground completely, abandoning the proper kneeling position, and Balthazar doesn’t even blink.

“How are you adjusting?” Balthazar asks, looking at him closely. “I imagine it was difficult to understand what was happening when Cassie first brought you here.”

“I thought he was trying to knock me up,” he blurts, unable to censor the words before they escape, and Balthazar’s eyes widen. He feels like he needs to say this, to unburden a little of his guilt by admitting it to someone else. “You know, like… like he was just trying to get me to go into a heat.”

Balthazar bursts out laughing. 

It’s… not exactly the reaction Dean thought he would have. And for a moment, Dean starts to get angry. But then, Balthazar wipes his eyes, one last chuckle escaping before he says, “Sorry, mate. Not laughing at you – been there, honestly, and it’s an awful place for your head to be. I’m sorry about that.” And he seems to mean it. Behind the laughter, there’s a look in his eyes that tells Dean he knows the fear Dean had felt – has even felt it himself, maybe.

“It’s just – thinking about  _ him  _ being that conniving…” He shakes his head. “I’ve known the man for years. He’s about as tame as a kitten, kid. And blunt as a spoon.”

Dean frowns. “How are you so…?” He doesn’t know how to phrase it, how to ask Balthazar how he can trust so easily, how he can walk around with his head held high despite the scar. How he can just  _ know  _ that Cas, an alpha, doesn’t mean any harm, when it has taken Dean weeks to believe it. 

“Practice,” he replies, tone suddenly serious. “Practice, and a shit ton of therapy.”

He smirks at Dean, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve also taken a bunch of self-defense classes. Knowing how to break somebody’s arm if they touch you gives you a fair bit of mental security.”

Dean snorts, but he can’t help but agree. One of the few things his dad  _ hadn’t _ changed when he’d presented was his insistence that Dean knew how to defend himself, and defend Sam. Early on, he’d taught Dean how to handle his fists, a hunting knife, a shotgun. He’d known how to load a pistol by the time he was eight, even if he didn’t have the hand strength to cock it, and had regularly used his ass-kicking skills against anyone who fucked with him or Sammy. 

Well. Used them on everyone except John, of course. 

Some people would probably think his dad’s methodology was fucked up. Dean knows he’d been a real bitch about it every time his old man had slapped him around for getting sloppy or lazy. But pretty soon he’d figured out dad had been right to keep him on his toes – he’d gotten himself out of more than one tight situation by landing a punch that douche-bag alpha bullies hadn’t anticipated. 

His fists clench in his lap as he thinks about it. He wonders if he can still hit hard enough to bruise. If he would even raise a hand to defend himself at all, now, or if the instinct has been too thoroughly beaten out of him.

“We’ve got classes like that you can join.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Uh – I don’t know if Cas would…”

Balthazar shakes his head. “Cassie  _ wants _ you to do things like that. It’s good for you.”

He looks down at his lap. “The dude that  _ owns _ me wants me to take self-defense classes?” 

Even as he says it, he finds that he actually believes it. Castiel has said over and over again that Dean’s not going to be treated like a slave while he’s here. Doesn’t matter that it took forever to sink into Dean’s thick skull. Even something this ridiculous doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility – not really. He’s immediately ashamed of himself. 

Luckily, the older omega just rolls his eyes instead of calling him on his disrespect. “Were you not listening to the rehabilitation part, kid?”

He makes a face. “Sorta thought that meant, like… not being scared out of my mind every fucking second.” 

“It does. And part of that is being confident that you’re safe. Cassie won’t deny you anything that might help with that, take it from me. You could ask that man for the moon and he’d try and give it to you.”

Dean’s not exactly sure he wants to push his luck, but when he thinks back to the way Castiel had held his hand last night, the way he’d sat on the edge of the bed until he’d drifted off just because Dean had asked him to, the way he’s offered his silent, strong support day after day… he thinks Balthazar’s probably right. Still, he can’t help the lingering doubt. Can’t help the nervousness he feels at the idea of asking for something so outlandish. 

He takes a quick breath in. And then another. It’s only when he sees Balthazar watching him with his head canted to the side that he realizes – he’s  _ scenting _ right now. Trying to calm himself down. Cas is in the other room, but his scent is all over the house, of course; enough that Dean feels himself relax, if only a little bit. 

He should probably be embarrassed by that. Should be ashamed that he’s unable to take care of himself, that he has to depend on an alpha’s pheromones just to keep him grounded.

Surprisingly, he finds that he isn’t. If Balthazar wants to judge him, well, that’s just fucking fine. Dean’s not going to apologize for trying to keep his footing, even if he kinda looks like a pussy for doing it. Balthazar is an omega too, after all. 

He doesn’t have to hide his bitch instincts here. It’s a bizarre form of relief. 

“You seem quite nervous,” the other omega observes bluntly. “What’s got you all twisted up, mate?”

“I just… I keep waiting for this to end,” Dean admits, twisting the front of his hoodie into a little ball in his lap. He’s tried to explain some of this to Castiel – it hasn’t gone well. He thinks that Balthazar is more likely to understand. “I ain’t worth shit, not like I am now.”

“It’s not about you being valuable in some way,” Bal says calmly. “You’re worth it to him just like you are.”

Dean half laughs. “The dude bought me with pocket change, man. He could throw me away and get someone else to replace me in a heartbeat.” The words are pessimistic, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t true. And even though Balthazar is free and he is not, he still feels comfortable saying them because they are both omegas, and the man had been a slave too. So Dean  _ knows  _ Balthazar understands the anxiety he’s feeling, maybe better than Dean understands it himself. “Someone like him shouldn’t want to waste his time with someone like me.”

The older man studies him for a moment. “Cassie has been wealthy all his life. He doesn’t see it as a power symbol. He just sees it as a means to an end.” He nudges Dean with his foot. “And in this case, that end benefits you quite a lot.”

Dean shakes his head, cocks his jaw. “He could have anyone.”

“He doesn’t  _ want  _ anyone,” Balthazar insists. “The only reason he bought you was so that he could help you f-”

“Everyone keeps telling me that!” Dean insists, cutting the man off. “But it makes no sense! I... It makes no sense,” he repeats. He sounds desperate. 

Balthazar is quiet for a moment – long enough for Dean to catch his breath. When he does speak, his voice is minutely softer. “That doubt you’re feeling is understandable. The things you’ve gone through have fucked with your brain quite thoroughly. But Castiel is not the type of man to play with lives,” he finishes, his words low and serious.

Dean chokes out a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “Christ. What’s  _ wrong _ with me? Why can’t I just be happy?” 

Because he really should be. He’s got food and water and warmth and kindness all around him. What the fuck does he have to complain about?

Balthazar nudges him again, more insistent this time. “Quit beating up on yourself, Winchester. What’d I just say?”

“That my dome’s basically scrambled eggs.”

Balthazar snorts. “For now. You need therapy.”

The blunt way he says it makes it sting less. Dean knows it’s true, knows he’s fifteen kinds of fucked up. For a fleeting moment, he thinks about how insane it is that Cas wants to get his  _ omega slave  _ into fucking  _ therapy,  _ but it’s just one more drop in the bucket of insanity that his life has become for the last month. 

He can’t go through life with one foot out the door, constantly waiting for something bad to happen to him. It doesn’t matter that up until this point he’d been  _ right  _ to be paranoid _.  _

“Talking to Benny would do wonders for you, kid.” Balthazar insists. “So when you’re ready for that, let Cassie know. He’ll set you up a home visit. Lafitte's a beta, great big bear of a man. He’ll help you get your head screwed on straight.”

Dean nods, biting his lip. He should probably stop talking now, but he’s nothing if not curious. And he still doesn’t understand the dynamic of his master and this strange omega in front of him. 

“How’d you meet Cas?” he asks, changing the subject. He can’t help but wonder. The sight of Balthazar clapping Cas on the shoulder is still stuck in his mind’s eye. It’s clear they’re close. 

Only now does it cross his mind that he should, logically, be suspicious. The only kind of  _ close _ alphas and free omegas tend to be is the  _ mated _ kind of close – but it hadn’t even occurred to him to be worried about that. And he can tell from Bal’s scent that, if there is an alpha in the picture, it’s not Dean’s. His markers would show it if that were the case. 

“Oh, I’ve known Cassie for years,” Bal says arily, side-stepping the question neatly. “He’s told you about our work, right?” 

Dean nods. “Sort of. Said he worked with you and Pamela and Benny. He told me y’all kinda… rehabilitate slaves. ”

Balthazar gives him a strange look. “That’s… all true. But, you know, it’s not just us four.”

Dean feels something sharp and uncomfortable begin to shift in his stomach. “It’s not?”

The omega shakes his head. “We’ve got about thirty staff members. Most of them live on the main campus with the rest of the residents.”

He can feel the room start to get small. 

“What?” he whispers, and Balthazar’s brow furrows as he takes in the expression on Dean’s face. 

“He hasn’t told you any of that? Not even how many people work for him?

It’s like getting punched in the gut – Dean would know. His next question comes out strangled. “Work  _ for  _ him?” 

“Yes, of course.” Balthazar furrows his brow at the expression on Dean’s face. Then, when he adds two and two, he glares at his master’s closed office door. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “The git didn’t tell you anything,” he mutters. 

“Wait. He _pays_ you?” Dean checks blankly, not quite able to wrap his head around the idea. “ _He_ pays you?”

“You want to see my tax returns, Winchester?” He gives him a look that’s a little too knowing, and his next words are slow. “Kiddo, Castiel  _ owns  _ the thing.  _ Novak _ Rehabilitation and Reintegration.” 

Dean’s throat tightens dangerously, till it feels like he’s breathing through a straw. 

He’d thought that Castiel had just… randomly decided to help him. That he and his buddies did this out of some rich person savior complex. Why hadn’t he  _ told _ him that it wasn’t just four or five random people doing charity work, but was essentially an entire  _ company _ ? Or that he was the fucking  _ boss _ ? 

It’s one thing to belong to some random rich do-gooder, to be a... pet. It’s something else to be a fucked up slave that belongs to someone who runs a business that’s all about  _ fixing _ fucked up slaves. Why the hell would Cas choose  _ him _ , of all people? Dean was the poster child for unfixable issues  _ before  _ he was enslaved, and even as isolated as he’s been he knows that what he went through under Alastair was far worse than average. He’s beyond messed up – he’s fucking  _ broken.  _

What happens when he can’t be fixed? How will that look for Castiel? What will that do to his pride, to his company, to his reputation? Will Cas even want to keep him, once he realizes he won’t get any better, any closer to being a human again?

Balthazar grimaces, his nose wrinkling at the sudden sour stench in the air. “Relax, kid,” he says, and even though there’s no alpha bite to it Dean tries to comply, because the room is spinning and he’s pretty sure that if he gets too upset Cas is gonna smell it and come try and rescue him. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and suddenly Balthazar is looking at him with his brow furrowed as he scents  _ again.  _ And even though the honey and rain scent of his alpha helps him a little bit, he’s still a million lightyears away from understanding  _ any _ of this. 

“I just –  _ why?  _ Why would he give a shit?”

Balthazar leans back and considers his words carefully, tapping his long fingers on the side of his knee. “He saw an injustice and he has a conscience. And he’s got the means. Why not?”

Dean can think of about a million reasons  _ why not,  _ can think of a million people who have just as much power and money as Castiel apparently does and turn a blind eye anyway – or worse, participate in the slave trade,  _ benefit  _ from the slave trade. 

Suddenly, this is all too much. It’s too much that there’s a freed omega slave sitting right in front of him, too much that Cas seems to genuinely be his  _ friend  _ and his  _ boss  _ and nothing more. Too much that the man that owns him is apparently some kind of paragon saint and too much that Dean is his wayward soul. His head hurts and his chest hurts and he just wants to lay down. So he stops asking questions, stops burying himself further, and nods at Balthazar’s words like he understands them. 

His knees are drawn up to his chest before he knows what he’s doing, and his nose is down nearly to his chest. He can still smell Cas on his clothes. 

Balthazar looks like he wants to say more, but he takes one look at Dean, sniffs the air experimentally, and sighs. He fishes in his front pocket and hands Dean a card with his name and number on it. It looks similar to the one that Pamela handed him, “NRR” printed in the corner in block letters. He hadn’t questioned that at the time, too overwhelmed. He holds it blankly, thinking about the doctor’s card that’s carefully hidden under the box spring in his room. 

“I was certainly intending on this being a longer conversation, but I think you’re due for a break,” he says, blunt but not unkind. “You can call me anytime you have questions you aren’t comfortable asking Cassie. The man’s trustworthy, and you’ll truly believe that eventually. In the meantime, though, there’s no reason for you to stew. So put that number in your phone.”

Dean feels fucking hysterical. “I don’t have a  _ phone,”  _ he retorts, thinking that Balthazar is joking, but the omega huffs out an exasperated sound. 

“Cassie, didn’t I  _ tell  _ you to get the kid a mobile?”

He freezes as Balthazar raises his voice so Cas can hear him inside the office. After a moment, the alpha opens the door, a slight frown on his face. “I intend to.”

“What in God’s name are you waiting for?”

Dean’s reeling, at this point, overwhelmed by the way the man is so casually talking to his alpha. Balthazar slides fluidly off the floor, stretching out his spine and grimacing when it pops. “I swear, you alphas wouldn’t know your ass from your head without someone to write down notes for you.”

Castiel scoffs, but there’s no anger in his scent, not even a tinge of frustration. Dean even thinks he can see a slight smile in the corners of his mouth. “Alright, alright. I was simply prioritizing other things.”

Yeah, like making sure his slave wasn’t going to off himself by running out into a friggin’ blizzard. Dean swallows, still on the ground, not quite brave enough to follow Balthazar’s example and stand up; especially when he strides over and claps the alpha’s hand in a handshake that morphs effortlessly into a hug. “Lovely chat, boss, but I’ve got to get going. Jody’s got a new batch of volunteers that need to hear the run-down.”

He turns his attention back to Dean. “Text me when this dolt gets you that phone,” he insists, crouching back down to give Dean a handshake of his own. His palm is warm and firm and Dean can’t help but be envious. “Capiche?”

He nods, and then Balthazar is gone.

* * *

“You absolute  _ arse.” _

Castiel grimaces as Balthazar growls into the phone in lieu of greeting. He’d seen the dangerous look in his friend’s eyes as he’d walked him to the door – seems that he’d been right to expect a verbal lashing. 

“Hello to you too, Bal,” he mutters, but the man is already on a roll. 

“You didn’t tell him  _ anything _ . Nothing! Kid didn’t even know you owned the damn company, Castiel!” 

Cas bites his lip. Dean is asleep, now – he’d joined Castiel in his office after Bal’s departure, his scent unsteady and strained. But he hadn’t at all looked like he wanted to talk. In fact, when Castiel had tried to gently press him for details, he’d shut down entirely. So Castiel had let him be, and they’d eaten dinner together in Dean’s room in relative silence, and then he’d left Dean to his own devices. 

“It hasn’t exactly been my top priority to… orient him, I suppose,” Castiel says. “It’s been one crisis after another, and it sort of… slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your – slipped your  _ mind?”  _ Bal demands. “Cassie, he’s got no  _ clue _ you want to free him – and I was too bloody afraid to tell him, in case it made him lose it entirely!”

Castiel winces. Traditionally, they tend not to tell omegas that their ultimate goal is freedom right away. That hadn’t been his decision – he’d been ready to tell them from day one. But at the urging of both Balthazar and Benny, he’d changed that particular policy. Omegas at the center only learn they are there to be freed when they are comfortable. When they trust the staff. It usually takes upwards of a couple of weeks, sometimes three. 

Dean’s been here for well over a month. 

“You believe he wouldn’t take the news well?”

Balthazar scoffs. “I think he’d have a goddamn mental breakdown.” He takes a long breath in through his nose, audibly trying to calm himself down. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you  _ tell him _ you’re the CE-fucking-O?” 

Why hadn’t he, indeed. He debates his answer, finding that he himself is still torn. At first, it simply hadn’t occurred to him that it would matter. But he can’t deny that he’s had plenty of opportunity to inform Dean a little more, plenty of opportunity to share his work. But he hadn’t. 

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding helpless even to himself. “I just… I didn’t want to intimidate him.”

“Too late for that,” Balthazar mutters. “He looked like he’d seen a ghost when I told him.” 

Castiel sighs quietly to himself. “Wonderful.”

“He thought I was a slave,” Bal muses, after a solid thirty seconds of silence. “Maybe even  _ your _ slave. But he was still clinging to your leg like a toddler and glaring at me for insulting you.”

Heat rises in his cheeks. He’s glad Balthazar can’t see him. “It’s the first time he’s done anything like that,” he says quickly. “It surprised me.”

“I could tell,” Bal says. “But it shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

He can tell that Balthazar is hesitating even over the phone – he’s silent for a while as he gathers his thoughts. “Think the kid’s scent-bonded to you,” he finally says. 

Cas sits up a little straighter, his heart pounding. “What?”

“I’m sure of it, in fact,” Balthazar says, a little firmer now. “I wasn’t expecting it, but I don’t really see any other explanation.”

His mouth is dry. “Bal, that’s… there’s no way. He’s still  _ scared  _ of me, or at least he was just yesterday – he’s –” 

“Cassie, would you just think about it for a second?” Bal insists. “Hugging you. Carrying a pillow with your scent all over it, even sleeping with it. Just that little touch on his shoulder I saw would have been enough to make most omegas panic, but it  _ calmed him down.”  _ He laughs a little. “Kid was scenting the air every time he got worked up.” 

A little dizzy, he sits down heavily on the couch in his office. The blanket Dean uses when he naps in here is folded carefully on the seat next to him. He looks at it blankly. He can smell it from here – apples and cinnamon and pastries. 

“It’s not a bad thing.” He’s rightfully diagnosing Castiel’s silence as panic. 

“But…” 

But Castiel is the last person on Earth Dean should be pinning his hopes on. The last person he should trust with his well-being. Castiel is abysmal at this, and it’s been proven over and over – but somehow he’s tricked Dean into a bond. Just a scent bond, sure, but a connection nonetheless. One that forces the omega to be subject to all the changes in his mood that Castiel himself doesn’t understand, one that is probably giving him some sort of flimsy fake comfort when it shouldn’t. 

One that will discourage Dean from leaving him, even if he should. 

“How do I fix it?”

His strained question startles a laugh out of Balthazar. “Fix it?”

“Of course! He can’t be… it’s not right,” he says, stomach churning. “He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, it’s unethical to push that kind of bond onto him –” 

“You didn’t push anything,” Balthazar corrects. “He did that on his own. The most you did was convince his little omega brain that he’s safe, and you shouldn’t be apologizing for that.” He hums a little, and adds, “It’s kind of impressive, actually.”

He’s numb. “I didn’t do anything right,” he says blankly. 

“Clearly you did, because otherwise he wouldn’t want to touch you at all,” Balthazar chuckles. 

“I… I’m simply  _ kind  _ to him,” he whispers. “He’s mistaken to place his trust in m–”

“Trust  _ me _ when I say,” Balthazar interrupts sharply, “that we don’t willy-nilly bond with any alpha that’s decent to us. Otherwise  _ I’d  _ be the one clinging to your leg.”

Castiel blushes. He closes his mouth, suitably chastised. “Apologies. That was insensitive.” 

“Apology accepted,” Bal says diplomatically. “But back to my point – you’ve both got a choice in front of you, mate.”

Castiel has been thinking along the same lines, and his stomach sinks even further. “I know.”

“At some point, there’ll be room for him here,” his friend says neutrally. “And normally I’d be all for bringing him in. But the fact that you two are tied together like this complicates things.”

“It would be better for him to be there,” Cas says after a moment. He tries to ignore the fact that it feels like he had to physically wrench those words out of himself. “We both know that.”

Balthazar hums. “I’m not so sure. Might cause more harm than good to separate you two now.” After a moment, he adds, “More harm to  _ both _ of you, really. Because you’ve obviously bonded to him, too.”

He closes his eyes. Doesn’t even try to deny it, because he knows it’s true. Knows that he can detect Dean’s emotions much easier than is normal, knows that his scent is multi-dimensional and deep rather than the simple omega-sweet that it should be. Knows what that means, and has known it for a while – he’s just been too cowardly to face it. 

On the one hand, Balthazar’s words should devastate him. He wants Dean to have the best possible care, and he knows better than to think he can be the one to provide that. However unintentionally, he’s swayed Dean into the false belief that Castiel is his best option. And he has so little control over himself that he’s bonded to Dean in return, even though he hadn’t meant to. 

On the other hand, another part of him – perhaps the  _ larger  _ part – is tremendously relieved at the idea that Dean trusts him, and even more so at the thought that Dean might not  _ leave _ him. And he hates himself for it. 

“What happens if he goes?”

Balthazar blows a long stream of air out of his mouth. “You’ll be depressed for a few months, at least. So will he. But you’ll both get over it.”

Castiel closes his eyes. “It’s his choice, Bal.” 

“Of course it is. Doesn’t mean he’ll be the only one affected, though.” 

“But my feelings on the subject don’t matter.”

“Yes they do,” Balthazar disagrees, a surprising degree of vehemence in his voice. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that being a martyr for the kid will help him. He needs stability, in one way or another – and if you’re going to be that for him, you need to keep your head.”

He looks down at his hand in his lap, somehow too large, almost forigen to him even after all the time he’s had to accept his designation for what it is. Thinks about the fragility of the man he’s become responsible for, and thinks about how he’s not built for handling things that are fragile. 

“You don’t even know that he  _ wants  _ to stay,” he says quietly. 

Balthazar sighs. “You’re right. I don’t, not for sure.” But after a moment, he adds, “I’d bet money he does, though.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth twists. “I’m surprised you think that much of me.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

And perhaps he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know what he did to gain Balthazar’s precious trust, or his loyalty. He’s seen the way the man reacts to other alphas. It usually isn’t pretty. But it’s been years since Bal has treated him with any sort of suspicion, even with their entangled pasts. 

“You’re right,” he mumbles, and if his voice is a little rough neither man comments on it. 

“I know,” Bal says breezily. After a moment, he says, a little reluctantly, “But this scent-bond complicates more than just the question of his housing. Like I said, breaching the topic of his emancipation is going to be… difficult, I’d imagine. More so than usual.”

“Should I hold off, then?”

Balthazar hesitates. “I suppose so. At least until he feels more secure. Otherwise, he’ll probably just panic and think you’re trying to dump him.”

“Noted.” Castiel sighs. Despite the less than positive news, he’s rightfully grateful for his friend’s guidance, and for his patience. “I’m not sure what I’d do without you, you know.”

“You’d be fine,” Bal says dismissively – though there’s a glimmer of a laugh there. “Woefully disorganized and even more of a hermit than you already are, but fine.”

“Still,” he says. “Thank you.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely a short one, but since I already posted once chapter this week I'm justifying this by calling it a bonus chapter lol. Here's just a dash of fluff to tide you over. Hope all you lovely peeps are having a wonderful week - I know I am! Amazing what voting a fascist out of office does for your peace of mind... 
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

The next few days are a much needed respite from the emotional roller-coaster of the last few. 

Their routine evolves into something approaching normalcy. Dean begins organizing the books in earnest once more, spending hours meandering around the house to separate the tomes into piles. Castiel hasn’t seen him stop to read one, yet, but he hopes Dean will feel comfortable enough to do so soon. The books he piled up outside of Dean’s door – a desperate attempt to comfort him – have migrated to his bedside table, so he’s hopeful. 

When Dean’s not nesting, he’s in Castiel’s office with him. He always knocks, always picks up the blanket he carefully folded the day before to wrap around his shoulders. Always carries the green pillow with him. Without fail, he naps for at least an hour, usually longer, curled up just a foot from Castiel’s chair. And while Castiel regrets that Dean has picked him of all people to scent bond with, he’s glad he can provide the omega with some sort of relief. His presence in the room is comfortable, if quiet. 

The most they talk is when Dean joins him for breakfast down in the kitchen. He appears around the same time every morning next to Castiel’s chair, close enough for the alpha to feel his warmth through his pants – though not quite close enough to touch, not since that afternoon with Balthazar. And every day, Castiel gets up, makes them both breakfast, and slowly nicks away at Dean’s iron defenses. 

The questions he asks as they dine together are intentionally innocuous. On Monday, it’s  _ scrambled, or fried?  _ followed by  _ cheese, or no cheese? _ Dean hesitates more than he should before he answers, looking at Castiel with searching eyes as if there’s a right answer and a wrong one. That day, for his return questions, Dean just echos his own, his voice quiet and timid, and they spend the rest of the meal in silence. 

On Tuesday, Castiel asks him whether he’d like water or orange juice. After far too long a pause, Dean says,  _ water,  _ and, following his gut, Castiel sets one glass of each in front of the omega. Dean looks up at him with naked surprise on his face, his forehead wrinkled. 

His return question is decidedly  _ less _ frivolous, his surprise edging into wariness. “How’d you know I was lying?”

Castiel just has to shrug. He doesn’t know if Dean is aware they’ve scent bonded or not, and he hasn’t explained it to him for a couple of different reasons – namely, that he’ll end up explaining it wrong. And he himself isn’t positive that he sniffed out Dean’s little fib, anyway. It had been something in his expression, he thinks – some sort of longing or internal conflict that gave him away. “I’m not really sure. You seemed to be debating something rather serious.”

Dean blinks a few times. “You’re not mad,” he says, and even though it isn’t exactly a question he’s going to err on the side of caution and treat it like one. 

“No,” he says gently. “As I’ve told you, you’re entitled to your privacy.”

The omega snorts very quietly. He picks up the glass of orange juice and takes a sip – and the look of appreciation that blooms across his face is pure and heartbreaking. Castiel finds himself smiling as he watches. 

Dean doesn’t seem to notice. He just takes another sip, and slowly says, “I was trying to figure out what would cost less.”

Castiel blinks. It takes him a second to understand the words, and in the meantime, Dean is staring down at the glass in his hand. His expression doesn’t match his tone – he’s nervous. It’s as though he’s waiting for Castiel to reprimand him, or perhaps to judge him. “I mean,” he adds, a little more hesitant, “obviously juice costs more than water. So there’s that. But you also want me to eat, and gain weight, I think, so the orange juice would have been better for that reason. So I wasn’t exactly sure.”

He can do nothing but stare. Dean looks up, catches his stunned expression, and drops his eyes back down. He turns the cup in his hands slowly, thumbing the rim of the glass with careful precision. “But then I figured,  _ I _ wanted the juice. So… I said water,” he finishes, something like a laugh slipping out at the end. It sounds too self deprecating to be genuine. “Thought to myself, y’know. Better safe than sorry.” 

The amount of thought Dean has put into such a small decision floors him. This unfiltered glimpse into what must go on in his head  _ every  _ time Castiel asks him a question makes his chest ache, and as he sits across from him in stunned silence, Dean seems to shrink into himself. 

“Shouldn’t have lied–” he begins to mumble, already back to timid deference, and Castiel doesn’t want that at all. 

“Thank you for telling me, Dean,” he says earnestly. Dean looks up at him, vulnerable and nervous and yet still so very strong, and Castiel cannot help but feel a tremendous sense of pride for the man. “That was very brave.”

And even though he scoffs, he would swear that Dean’s spine straightens. Just a little. 

On Wednesday morning, Dean doesn’t kneel next to his chair to greet him. Instead, he plops down and crosses his legs, leaning his back against the table, and looks up at Castiel with tired eyes. He has the pillow already today. Castiel wonders if that means he had a hard night.

He looks down with a smile. “Hello, Dean.”

“Mornin’,” he says quietly. Though he’s more rested than he’s been so far, Castiel can still see shadows under his eyes. The omega watches silently as he gets up to start cooking them breakfast. 

“Would you like toast, or a bagel this morning?” Castiel asks, his back intentionally turned. He wonders what kind of mental gymnastics Dean is doing to find his answer. 

“Toast,” he finally says, and Castiel smiles over his shoulder at him and pops some down. He thinks that they’ll have eggs again, today – Dean seemed to like the sausage he’d mixed into them before. The pan is just hot enough to start when Dean speaks. 

“How come you didn’t tell me you ran the joint?”

Castiel freezes. When he looks over, the omega is pinning Castiel in place with a firm look as he stands by the stove. It’s Dean’s determination to meet his gaze more than anything that tells him this is serious. 

He falters, just a little, but Dean clearly catches it. His gaze doesn’t waver as Castiel slowly turns off the stove, as he considers his words. “I… I’m not sure, exactly. I suppose I originally didn’t think you would believe me, and frankly, it makes no difference. I’m no more important than the other people on my staff – in fact, I contribute significantly less than most of them.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. He looks away. There are any number of questions Dean could ask him now, each of which presents its own set of dangers. He resolves to be as honest as possible, but he’s terrified. 

“Is every slave you’ve had as fucked up as me?”

The words are cold. Castiel studies Dean for a long time, until the omega looks back up at him – his expression is fierce, but Castiel can see the hurt there, too.

“You’re the first that I’ve personally fostered, Dean. I thought that would be obvious, judging by the poor way I’ve handled your situation so far.”

Rather than being reassured by that information, Dean seems even more distressed. He swallows, looking down and away. 

“I apologize for not being more transparent,” Castiel says eventually. Because he _is_ sorry. Over and over again, he seems to do the wrong thing, to make the wrong choice. And once again, his lack of competence has affected Dean negatively.   


Dean shakes his head, dismissing his apology like he has a few times before, as though he thinks it’s ridiculous that Castiel is even offering it. His shoulders are tight. So are his hands, twisted into the pillow. 

“Your situation,” Castiel adds eventually, “was unprecedented. I’ve never… we’ve never done something like this,” he says helplessly. He abandons the stove and sits down in front of Dean, a good few feet away to give him the space he probably wants. “I know that this arrangement must feel unfair.”

It is, of course. All the other residents are housed in a place that gives them help 24/7, from people who are well trained. And each of them are owned by his  _ company _ , not really by him personally – which means that he rarely interacts with them at all before they earn their freedom, and oftentimes not even after that. Even the overflow cases they’ve had recently at least get the benefit of being housed with beta and omega staff members. 

Dean is the only one that has ended up stuck with an alpha. Stuck with him. 

Dean’s eyes are closed when Castiel dares to look. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and it hurts to hear even if it’s true. He starts to tell Dean about the center, about how there will likely soon be an opening for him, but the omega doesn’t give him a chance. 

“I’m just… I just don’t get why the hell you’d pick  _ me,”  _ he says, gesturing to himself with a desperate sort of confusion. 

Castiel wants more than anything to reach forward and take Dean’s hand. He clenches his fists in his lap instead. “I told you, our scouter found your file–”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Dean insists, his voice strained. “You run an organization that fixes slaves, and you pick a slave that  _ can’t _ be fixed to be  _ yours,  _ to stay in your house and be your little – your pet project, or whatever, when you could have picked literally  _ anyone  _ else –”

He can’t help it – he leans forward and shakes his head and is only distantly gratified when Dean doesn’t flinch back. “Dean, you are  _ not  _ a project. You are not a  _ hobby _ . You are a living, breathing man who deserved to be saved long before I bought you.”

Dean doesn’t look him in the eye. He tightens his hold around the pillow, self-soothing. “But of all the slaves around, all the ones that could actually be fixed, you bought… me.” His gaze is hollow. “Unfixable.”

That isn’t even remotely true. Dean has made leaps and bounds in just the short time that he’s been here, blooming like a flower under his own sun. But that isn’t really something he can make Dean believe, not yet. All he can do is help him understand his own motivations. 

Castiel lays out a hand next to the pillow. Dean blinks up at him, his face raw with emotion. 

“I didn’t buy you to  _ fix _ you. I bought you so that you could have a better life, in whatever form that takes. The progress you have already made is  _ your  _ progress, not mine. All I want to do is provide you with a safe place to heal.”

Dean swallows. He doesn’t take Castiel’s hand right away – he starts to, and then draws back, his fingers curling into his palm. He closes his eyes, and Castiel can tell that tears try and press out; Dean swats them angrily away. “I ain’t salvageable, Cas. I can’t be what you want me to be. You have to see that.”

“I don’t need you to  _ be _ anything, Dean.” He’ll say it as many times as the omega needs to hear it. 

“But…” Dean bites his lip. “I  _ want  _ to be right for you.”

Guilt nearly drowns him. He’s tried so hard to make Dean feel safe, but this is damning evidence that he’s utterly failed. If Dean still feels like he needs to prove his worth to be here, Castiel is doing an awful job at providing the security that he so desperately needs. 

Dean should not have to suffer here with him simply because Castiel has developed a… a  _ possessive  _ streak. It’s barbaric. And it’s cruel. 

“I know I’ve made mistakes,” Castiel forces himself to say, before he can lose his nerve. He starts to back up, to give Dean more space like he wants. “And I promise that as soon as there’s room at the facility, you won’t have to be here with me anym–” 

He can’t even finish the thought before Dean’s eyes snap open. “ _ You’ve  _ made  _ –  _ you think I’m upset over  _ that? _ ” he asks, incredulous, and Castiel is too flabbergasted to respond – especially when Dean grabs his wrist to keep him from moving any further. “God, no.  _ No _ . This is… Jesus, I mean, this is better than I ever thought I’d get. This is fucking paradise,” he says emphatically, leaning forward and gesturing to the room around him, and then to Castiel himself. “You…  _ Cas.” _ He’s shaking his head. He’s laughing. “You saved my  _ life.”  _

He looks as stunned by his own words as Castiel feels, and he blinks, his cheeks flushing red with self consciousness. But he doesn’t backtrack. He simply looks down at his hand on Castiel’s arm, as if he’s surprised that it’s there. Softer, but with no less conviction, he adds, “I don’t wanna go anywhere else. Not ever.”

It’s hard to speak past whatever is squeezing his throat. When he does open his mouth, he realizes that he can’t find the words to express how much that means to him, and at the same time how scared he is that Dean feels so strongly. How scared he is that those feelings are not even real, and are the product of some hormonal drive that neither of them can really control. 

“Dean…” And, God, Dean looks up at him with those big green eyes, wide and scared. He doesn’t want to ruin this – but he can’t stop now. Can’t let Dean make this decision uninformed. “Balthazar pointed out to me that it’s very likely we’ve...” 

He falters, the words stuck in his throat. His voice sounds awful – robotic, almost. The same tone that he’s been sneered at for countless times – the emotionless, static sound of his inability to deal with himself or what he’s feeling. “It’s very likely that we’ve scent bonded.”

Dean doesn’t jerk his hand away as if burned, doesn’t back up or hide. Doesn’t flinch. He just stares at Castiel, waiting, as if what he’s said doesn’t spell the end of everything. In fact, he  _ relaxes,  _ relieved. “Well…  _ yeah. _ I knew that.” He pauses. “I mean, I didn’t really know what to call it. But that sounds right.”

“Do you… do you know what that means?” Castiel asks tentatively, sure that he must not. Otherwise he would be more upset, would feel more violated.

A blush spreads slowly across his cheeks – Dean is nervous about something, clearly. And even though he’s kicking himself for this bond, Castiel is glad that he can sniff out that Dean is merely embarrassed – not ashamed. 

Dean’s hand is still warm around his wrist – he hasn’t pulled away. 

“Just means I trust you, Cas.”

Castiel finds himself blinking rapidly, finds that his eyes suddenly sting. He finally reaches out and holds Dean’s hand in turn, cupping his palm between his own. Dean says it so easily, an edge of self-conscious laughter in his voice – he clearly sees nothing wrong with what Castiel has done, other than that it seems to embarrass him. The intensity of the hope inside him is shocking, but he can’t assume Dean truly understands. 

“It…” he clears his throat. “It strengthens our emotional… tether. Meaning that you can sense my mood swings much more clearly than you could otherwise.” He looks up. “I can also sense yours,” he says carefully, watching Dean’s face for any sort of reaction. “And our moods affect each other.”

Dean just gives him a puzzled look, as though he’s not sure why Castiel is so upset. “I mean… yeah? I’d be crawling the walls right now, otherwise,” he half jokes, but when Castiel stares at him blankly he grows a little more insistent. “You calm me down. Like, all the time. So I ain’t exactly complainin’.” 

He gives Castiel a rueful smile, apparently unaware that he’s completely tilted the world on its axis. “I’m sure it’s no fun for you, though. I didn’t realize it was a two-way street, but that makes sense. Explains why it looks like you want to tear through bricks every time I get scared.”

Castiel is fairly certain he’d feel that way regardless, but he lets out a relieved huff of laughter anyway.

Dean suddenly hesitates. He swallows, then speaks slowly, his eyes still down on their hands. “But I mean if – if you don’t want that,” he offers timidly, “I get it. I must be a pain in the ass for you – makes sense if you want me to go there. I’m so–”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts quickly, horrified that Dean would think anything of the sort. “Please don't misunderstand. I very much want you _here._ ”

He doesn’t realize what he’s said until Dean’s eyes flick up to his, pupils large and round in the gentle morning light. And it hadn’t been what he meant to say – he’d meant to give Dean the choice, meant to keep himself in check so the man would tell him what he wanted without fear of displeasing him. But now he can’t help but wonder if he’d been misguided to keep his feelings to himself for so long, because Dean lets out a choked, relieved sound, and his shoulders loosen, and he looks for all the world as if he’s about to cry. 

“You want me to stay?” he checks, his voice shaky. 

“Of course I do,” Castiel says,  _ knowing _ suddenly that this is exactly what Dean needs to hear, knowing that this is what will make him feel safe. “Of course.”

Dean closes his eyes, and a shuddering exhale escapes him. And, driven by instinct – or perhaps just because he wants to – Castiel gathers Dean into his arms and pulls him close. 

He goes slack against him, buries his face into Castiel’s shirt, and breathes easy. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a little later than usual, folks! I really struggled with it for some reason, and a lot of it was stuff that I had only blocked in and hadn't actually drafted... Anywho. Hope y'all are having a great week. For my Thanksgiving-celebrators; we're almost there! 5 more days until a break!
> 
> As always, thank you so much to those of you who review! I'll have to catch up on replying to you guys throughout the week (it's been a crazy weekend), though I hope you don't think I haven't read (and re-read, and RE-re-read) your kind words. You guys make it all worth it. 
> 
> This bad boy feels a little short to me, but the good news is that the next chapter is pretty much ready to go. I'll have it up in a few days as a bonus for the week.

The next morning, Dean joins him later than usual for breakfast. Castiel had been a little worried, paranoid that he’d somehow sent Dean backwards in his recovery _again_ yesterday – but when the omega finally wanders into the kitchen, the difference in his demeanor is startling. 

He doesn’t look _tired._ That’s a first. 

Well rested and bright-eyed, the omega looks around the kitchen curiously. His hair is wet and his cheeks are still flushed from his morning shower, and he smells like toothpaste and apples. Castiel smiles at him and, shyly, Dean smiles _back._

That tiny expression is more than enough to make him feel like he’s floating. Dean blinks at the sudden joy he can no doubt smell in the air, a puzzled quirk to his mouth, but his smile doesn’t fade. Castiel wishes, hysterically, that he could snap a picture of that expression and frame it.

He’s been staring too long. “Are you hungry?”

Dean nods. He doesn’t automatically drop to the ground this time, but he doesn’t quite make it to the table either. Instead, he leans against the counter next to Castiel and inspects the omelette he’s been nervously over-engineering, waiting for Dean to come down for breakfast and convincing himself not to intrude by checking on him. 

“What’re those orange things?”

Castiel swallows at the omega’s sudden nearness, at his calm and content scent and at the conspicuous _lack_ of sour fear in the room. It’s making him lightheaded. He’s _giddy._ After so long, Dean is finally starting to truly relax. “They’re bell peppers. Have you had those?”

From this close, he can see the intelligence in Dean’s green eyes, the way he sniffs the air and mulls the question over. “Dunno. They don’t really smell like peppers.”

He’s not questioning Castiel directly, but even this little bit of stubborness is progress. With a little smile, Castiel gestures over at another half-chopped pepper on the cutting board with his spatula. “There’s some more over there, if you’d like to inspect them.”

Dean steps that way, and Castiel takes a moment to study the way the omega moves. He no longer appears to be sore, isn’t limping or holding himself like he hurts anymore. He’s grateful that, despite his paranoia, Dean had not stopped taking the medication that Castiel left for him on the bathroom counter. Castiel has spent hours tossing and turning to the image of Dean’s bruised sides and whip-marked spine, and he’ll likely spend hours more remembering them even after they’ve healed completely.

There’s a crunch, and with a start he realizes that Dean’s picked up a spear of pepper and bitten it. The omega’s nose scrunches up in a way that Castiel tells himself firmly _isn’t_ adorable. 

“Are you not a fan?”

Dean opens his mouth to reply and then doesn’t, the words caught in his throat as he flicks his eyes up and catches Castiel’s gaze. He holds the bit of pepper in his hand like he’s not sure what to do with it; like he’s startled to find that it’s there in the first place. “Uh – no, that’s not… I mean, it’s…” His eyes drop. “It’s fine.”

Castiel softens. Just a few moments with a more relaxed version of Dean has made him forget how easily he can be spooked – how cautious he needs to be. “If you don’t like it, Dean, you can tell me. I’ll just make your omelette without them. You certainly won’t offend me.”

Dean takes a breath, and when he exhales, it’s with a half laugh that sounds more self-deprecating than anything. He looks back at Castiel ruefully. “Okay. Sorta tastes like soap, actually.” He pauses, a quirk lifting the side of his mouth. “Dunno why I’m scared to tell you that.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I can think of many reasons, all of them understandable. But none of them are valid here.”

Dean is quiet at that. The omega is looking around the kitchen slowly, the pepper abandoned next to the cutting board. “Can I help you clean up?” he asks abruptly. 

Castiel blinks. “You are under no obligation to–”

“I know.” They both seem surprised that Dean cut him off, but he grimaces and continues on like he’s afraid he’ll lose steam if he stops. “It just feels weird to sit around and let you do all the work, you know?” He looks meaningfully at the ever-growing pile of dishes. “And, uh, not just because you’re an alpha and I’m not. Or because I’m… yeah. But it just seems unfair.”

Castiel can feel his mouth twitching into a smile, despite the topic at hand. This may be the most that Dean has said to him unprompted. He’s communicating without an extreme emotional trigger to set him off, for once, and he finds that he likes the calm rumble of his words, his slight southern drawl. Weeks away from confinement and danger, his voice has grown stronger, less raspy, and he can imagine that Dean would sound quite confident in another life. Could sound quite confident in this one, given the chance. 

“What do you propose?” he asks. The memory of Dean cowering under the sink and a broken plate is at the forefront of his mind, juxtaposed with the healthier young man in front of him. It seems like a lifetime ago, and at the same time, like it could have been yesterday.

Dean gives him another half smile, though the way his eyes linger at the sink tells Castiel he’s probably remembering the same. “You cook, I clean? Or vise versa.”

“You can cook?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so incredulous, and he winces, but Dean just shrugs. He hesitates for a moment, considering his words, and when he speaks there’s a bit of forced nonchalance there. But he still answers. “Sure. Ain’t very experienced with all this fancy stuff,” he says, gesturing to the bell pepper, and Castiel has to wonder what kind of childhood he had if _that_ constitutes as fancy, “but I knew enough to get by, back in the day.” 

He has to wonder where and when Dean learned that, why he needed to know how to cook. Who he was cooking for. It would have to have been when he was a child, before he’d gone into the trade, because his paperwork hadn’t listed cooking as a skill. He thinks he’s beginning to understand where “Sammy” might have fit in Dean’s life, and the implication makes his chest ache. 

But he doesn’t ask about any of that, because he remembers all too well what happened the last time that Dean spoke of his past. Castiel has already resolved that if Dean ever wants him to know _any_ of that, _he’ll_ be the one to bring it up. 

He realizes that he’s been quiet for too long when Dean suddenly looks unsure of himself. “But, uh, I mean. Obviously if you don’t want that, I don’t have to –”

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve had someone else cook for me,” Castiel interrupts. “Other than takeout, I mean. It would be a pleasure. As would your assistance with cleaning up.”

Dean gives him the gift of another small, slightly nervous smile, ducking his head to his chest in a nod. “Alright. Can I start on those?”

The pile of dishes in the sink is starting to look like the Tower of Pisa, and Castiel can’t help the flash of embarrassment. “Ah. I apologize for that… I’ll admit I don’t really have much experience with the clean-as-you-go method.”

Dean’s already moving that way, carefully rolling the sleeves of the dark navy hoodie he’s grown attached to up to his elbows. “‘S fine.” 

Castiel takes the chance to look at the bruises around Dean’s wrists, around his neck – they’ve changed from a purple so dark that it was nearly black to faded yellows and browns, hardly visible. They’re healing. 

_Dean’s_ healing. He hadn’t waited until Castiel had given him explicit permission to do what he’d wanted. The realization makes him smile. 

They work in companionable silence for a while, Castiel finishing up breakfast and Dean making a sizable dent in the dishes, and by the time the food is ready they’re both far more relaxed. Water and suds are soaked into Dean’s hoodie when he pulls away from the counter, and he looks at the stacked and drying dishes next to the sink with an expression of pure satisfaction. 

“You made very quick work of those,” Castiel says, nodding at the pile, and Dean glances at him, obviously surprised. “You’ll have to teach me your ways so that I can stop abusing the counter space.”

A smile spreads across his face, and before his eyes Dean seems to grow a few inches taller. And a new scent – _pride_ – spreads throughout the room. It’s sweet and bright, like sliced green apples, so nice that it actually makes his mouth water a little. Is this the first time he’s paid Dean a genuine compliment? 

If it provokes _this_ kind of reaction, he’ll do it as often as he can from this point forward. 

Dean doesn’t let him linger on the sentiment, though, before he moves on to gently teasing him. “You tellin’ me you don’t know how to do dishes, Cas?” he asks innocently, a mischievous spark in his eye that Castiel is delighted to see. 

“Not well. Though I think you may have noticed that already.”

He grins, shakes his head. “Nah.” And, still smiling, he follows Castiel into the living room. When he passes Castiel to sit, he brushes up against him, and perhaps Castiel is projecting but… it feels a little too intentional to be a mistake. He hopes that Dean gets the comfort that he needs from that contact, from whatever scent he just picked up without directly asking for it. 

He thinks about offering to hold him, about the warmth of the man against his chest. Then he faces reality and thinks about how that would be for _Castiel’s_ benefit instead of Dean’s, and dismisses the idea. He offers Dean his plate instead. The omega takes it without hesitation, settling down in front of the couch cross-legged and leaning back against it comfortably as he flashes Castiel a small smile. 

They’re about halfway through their meal before Dean speaks. “Did you cook for yourself like this before I got here?”

His voice sounds fairly smooth, but Castiel can hear the slight edge of nerves in it. It’s nice, though, that Dean seems committed to the idea that they share facts about themselves, committed to the idea of equivalent exchange. So he decides to be honest. It’s the least he can do. 

“I did not,” he answers simply. “I am frankly surprised that the local eateries have not put up missing posters.”

Dean breathes a little laugh out of his nose, mirth creasing the corners of his eyes, and Castiel thinks they’re probably equally surprised by the sound. “What’s your favorite?”

Castiel hums. “I have always been a fan of Chinese take-out. As well as the humble pizza.”

Dean snorts. “Weird to think about you eating _pizza._ ” Castiel wants to ask him to elaborate, but before he can Dean clears his throat. “I, uh. I used to be all about burgers and fries as a kid. Greasier the better.”

Castiel isn’t stupid. He knows that it’s meaningful that Dean is telling him even something this innocuous about his past life, giving him any sort of detail about when he was free. Dean won’t meet his eyes, looking down at his plate and picking at the omelette instead. “Perhaps we could cook that soon,” he offers, encouraged when Dean perks up a little. “I’d have to make a grocery run beforehand, but…” 

Mouth twitching up at the corners, Dean flicks his eyes upward to catch his. “That’d be awesome,” he says softly. And oh, what a sign of trust _that_ is – Dean telling him what he likes, what he _wants._

“Then we will,” he declares, and Dean gives him a small, genuine, _beautiful_ smile. 

* * *

Dean’s cellphone arrives on the porch a few days later. Apparently, Cas hadn’t been bluffing when he’d said he was going to order Dean one – not that Dean really thought he had been. Mostly, he’d just been confused enough about the whole thing that he’d made himself _not_ think about it. A Dean Winchester specialty. 

The alpha smiles when he brings it into the office where Dean is waiting, leaning against the desk with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. He’d been asleep when the bell had rung, thankfully. Otherwise he might have been more afraid than he’d _already_ been when he’d scrambled upright to the sound. But Castiel had been right there, murmuring, “That will be the phone, I imagine.” He’d rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder, staying with him until he’d been sure Dean was fully awake and calm. 

It’s the most Cas has touched him since their hug a few days ago. Dean has been pretty pitiful since then, brushing up against Cas like a needy cat, but he hasn’t been brave enough to ask for more direct contact. He knows Cas would give it to him – the man has been visibly patient with his “accidental” touches, never once commenting on them even though he easily could. But Dean just feels too exposed at the thought of coming out and directly _asking_ for it. Feels too pathetic. So he hasn’t. 

And since there’s not much Cas will do without his explicit consent, he’s been going through friggin’ hug withdrawals ever since. 

Cas plops down in front of him after retrieving a letter opener, slicing through the tape holding the brown box together. Dean watches, a little mystified, as he pulls out another, smaller box, this one white with a picture of a colorful rectangle on the front. It takes Dean a stupid amount of time to realize that it’s a picture of the _phone._

The alpha hands him the box with a smile, and for a second, Dean just sits there like a lump. Then he opens the lid, fumbling because his hands are shaking a little when he does it. Nestled in a mess of black foam is a very breakable looking thing that, supposedly, belongs to him. 

He’s being too quiet – shit. He needs to say something. Should have already said something. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Cas says, sounding for all the world as if he doesn’t think this is patently insane. “You can program in the numbers that Balthazar and Pamela gave to you, along with mine. If you wish, that is.”

He picks up the phone slowly. Both too small and too heavy in his hands, it doesn’t spring to life like a futuristic robot as he half expected it to. It doesn’t even have _buttons_. 

“Cas?” 

“Yes, Dean?”

“I don’t…” He can feel himself blushing, dammit, hot all the way up to the tips of his ears. And it’s dumb that something like this should mortify him – Cas has seen him in far worse states. So he powers through, the reward far greater than the risk. “I ain’t got a clue how this thing works.”

He makes himself look up at the alpha, hoping his face is not as red as it feels, and Cas is looking at him in open surprise. “Oh. Oh!” he says after a moment, shaking his head. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Dean. That didn’t even occur to me.”

Dean hands the phone back to him with an enormous amount of relief – strange, really, because he should probably be fighting tooth and nail to hold onto it. But he’s past thinking that Cas is gonna take away the things that he wants Dean to have, so he doesn’t even think about the possibility that he won’t get it back. 

Cas turns it to the side, showing him a row of buttons along the edge that he hadn’t even noticed. “This is a newer model than mine,” he says thoughtfully, “but I believe you turn it on like this.”

Sure enough, the screen flashes white and little logos and words start to appear, and Dean stares transfixed as Castiel moves through the set-up options that do nothing but baffle him. He shows Dean how to “unlock” the thing, how to navigate to the little green box down at the bottom left corner that will allow him to call people. It seems absurdly small in relation to the rest of the screen, considering it’s a friggin’ _phone._

Numbers appear on the screen, and at least that much is familiar to him. He stares as Cas types in ten digits and then saves it as a contact. And it makes something warm flutter to life in his stomach when the alpha saves it under _Cas,_ rather than any number of things Dean should by all rights be referring to him as. He hands it back to Dean carefully, smiling as he does so. 

“Would you like to text me so that I have your number as well?” he asks, and Dean’s hands shake a little as he clicks on the new contact name. A little row of options appear, and one of them looks like an envelope – he figures that’s the one. Sure enough, a new screen appears that looks vaguely familiar, except it has a full keyboard right there instead of physical buttons to press a few times till the right letter appears. 

He fumbles and mistypes it a few times before he manages to tap out, _hey cas._ The phone keeps thinking he’s trying to say _can,_ so he stubbornly backspaces and retypes it until it stays fixed. Then he pokes buttons at random until it sends with a little whooshing sound effect, and a moment later Castiel’s phone buzzes. 

He smiles when he unlocks it, showing Dean his own message. “You’re quite a quick study,” he rumbles, tapping his phone a few times – to save Dean’s number, he guesses. “It's really very remarkable.”

And _shit,_ he’s unprepared for the sudden burst of pleasure in his chest at those words, the way he feels lightheaded with some feeling he doesn’t even know how to name. A feeling that intensifies even more when the first text he’s gotten in a decade pops up on his phone: 

> _Hello, Dean._

He glances up and catches Cas looking at him with a fond expression on his face, his features soft as he smiles. Dean wants to hug him so bad that it’s nearly painful – but he just manages to hold himself back, determined to act normal. 

“Thanks, Cas,” he says again, and if his voice is a little too quiet or choked up, the alpha doesn’t say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing fanart by thirdleaflogic on tumblr!!! They are amazing!!!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy. Uh... yeah. Didn't watch the finale myself, but I gather it was pretty much the worst case scenario... 
> 
> An early chapter, with angst and fluff in these challenging times? A cure for what ails you? Thought about splitting it up, but I figured... maybe it'd be better to keep it together.

“Cas?”

Castiel doesn’t look up from his spreadsheet right away, distracted by a sequence of numbers that aren’t behaving. These easy conversations with Dean are growing more and more commonplace, each day that passes helping him grow bolder and more sure of himself. By now, he’s used to Dean’s gentle attempts at small talk, used to his somewhat timid questions and observations, all of which he’s brave enough to share on his own. 

He hums. “Yes, Dean?”

There’s a long enough pause for it to sink in that this is unlikely to be about what they’ll be eating for dinner or some innocuous question about his books, and he just has time to look up before Dean asks,

“Why _am_ I here with you?”

Castiel leans back from his computer, rolling back his chair until he can see the man clearly. The omega has been leaning against the side of his desk for close to an hour, quietly relaxing and absorbing the sunshine that pours into his office from a window he’s never been more grateful for. Now, though, Dean is looking up at him with a determined expression that is quickly becoming familiar, some combination of nervous insecurity and stubborn bravery that never fails to make his heart ache. 

“Not that I…” Dean clears his throat, a little bit of a blush dusting his cheeks. “Not that I don’t want to be. You know that. But how come you’ve never fostered anyone but me?”

Castiel contemplates his words before he says them, determined to tell Dean the whole truth this time. “Traditionally, slaves – and honestly, omegas in general – don’t do well around un-bonded alphas. So we’ve never tried to have alphas foster.” That’s not the only reason, not by far, but it’s the biggest one. He hopes Dean will understand what he means, and he seems to. The young man’s face is all too knowing. 

“As for why you’re _here,_ though,” Castiel continues, “instead of at the main campus where Balthazar and Pamela work – we recently took in a large number of omegas, and the law states that a property can only house so many slaves at any given time. We were going to be over-capacity at the facility, which would put all of those omegas at risk of being repossessed.” Dean nods, and, encouraged that he at least understands the basics of slave-law, Cas continues. “Normally, our staff and network of fosterers take any excess residents into their homes temporarily, but we’re over-full even there right now because of the recent bombings.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “Bombings?”

It strikes Castiel like a slap that Dean likely has no _idea_ what happened to him that night. No understanding of the anti-slave movement, or about the divide between _his_ side – the ones who are working to change the laws and save as many people harmed by the trade as they can in the meantime – and the side of the religious extremists, people so vehemently against the sex trade that they’ll kill slaves right along with their masters just to hurt the market. 

And as isolated as he’d been, it’s doubtful that Dean has any knowledge about the changing tide of omega rights, the cases that, in the last few years, have gone as high as the supreme court that have started to redefine how omegas should be treated. There’s so much that he’s missed after a decade as a slave, half that as a captive in the highest degree. He’d been cut off completely from the outside world. And the mere fact that Dean has never asked for clarification before now shows how damaging that time has been to his psyche. 

“Several… brothels… in the state were hit the same week that Hell was,” he says after a too-long pause – one in which Dean has grown visibly nervous. “Not all of the bombs were as damaging as the one that hit Hell. Many of the slaves in those places were voluntarily sold to auction houses because their owners no longer had the facilities to support them legally. And if they _weren’t_ sold, they were repossessed by the state because their masters violated the law by trying to keep them.” 

They’d made many of those calls themselves, Jody keeping a careful eye on the shambles of the brothels and feeding tips to her friends in law enforcement. Once the slaves had been repossessed and put back up for auction, they’d swooped in. 

“Wait. _Wait_ ,” Dean demands, and Castiel does, falling silent so that the omega can pick through what he’s said. He’s reeling, clearly shocked by the information. “I thought – _who_ bombed them? _Why_ did they bomb them?”

Suspicions confirmed, Castiel swallows. He tries to make his scent calming beforehand, well aware that what he’s about to tell Dean is likely to scare him. “There are…” He hesitates. “There are groups that are very zealous about their hatred of sexual slavery. Religious fundamental extremists. They want to outlaw the practice, but they also want to…”

“Kill us,” Dean finishes dully when Castiel can’t, not nearly as much fear as he had anticipated in his tone. “Right. ‘Cause we _chose_ it.”

The thing is, Dean doesn’t sound sarcastic. He sounds like he means it, _looks_ like he means it as he folds his arms around himself, making his body small. Castiel wants more than anything to pull at that thread, to hear the story of how Dean ended up where he was, but he stops himself. Now isn’t the time, nor is it his place. 

The omega half laughs, shakes his head angrily. “Can you believe I thought it was because of – because of _him?_ I thought he’d pissed off the wrong person, stuck his fingers in too many pies or… or something. But of course not.” His words lose their ire as he repeats them. “Of course not.”

Dean looks up at him, some guarded emotion swirling in his eyes. “What about me? How’d I end up back at auction?” 

Castiel hesitates, but he firmly reminds himself that Dean is entitled to this information. He won’t hide it from him, even if he is beginning to suspect that it will bring Dean more turmoil than comfort.

“From what I understand, you went unclaimed.” He pauses, but Dean doesn’t react – he forges forward. “After a 72-hour waiting period you became a ward of the state automatically. That often happens with slaves that are found and picked up by law enforcement, but aren’t reclaimed by owners in time.” 

Dean is stiff as a stone now, his shoulders beyond tense as he listens to Castiel spell out his ordeal with his eyes in his lap. And as much as he wants to stop, Castiel keeps going, knowing that hiding things from Dean will only make it worse. “Then, in most cases – this one included – the state sells the slaves back to the auction houses, usually within a few hours.” He pauses. “That’s part of the reason why it took so long for us to purchase you. We knew that a slave had survived the blast, but we couldn’t move to bid until the waiting period given to your… _original_ master expired.”

“They… gave him a _waiting period.”_ Dean’s voice is thin, but there’s no real emotion there – not yet. “I heard the handlers saying I was the only one left,” he says after a moment, his tone carefully neutral. “They just meant slaves?”

Castiel frowns. “As far as I know. Why?”

The blood drains from Dean’s face, and a serpent of fear makes its way over to Castiel, potent and sour. He bolts to attention – but the omega’s expression is utterly blank. 

“Dean?”

His voice is terrible and small. “What about my master?”

It clicks into place, then, and Castiel feels like an idiot for not knowing _exactly_ what Dean’s fear would be. 

He abandons his chair, aligns himself in front of Dean to ground him, get him back in the present. Dean doesn’t react in the slightest to his proximity – he is stiff, frozen, eyes too wide and breath too shallow. 

“I didn’t read the news reports, so I… I don’t know,” Castiel says truthfully. He’d been far more concerned with the slaves’ side of things, and had frankly been uninterested in whether or not the master had survived. The only reason he’d given that alpha any thought at all was to hope that he wouldn’t pick Dean up before the waiting period expired. 

“Dean,” he soothes, heart beginning to race at the mere scent of Dean’s fear, at his bone-white face and drawn up knees. “If your old master was indeed inside, it is _very_ unlikely that he lived. The building, from what I saw on the news, was rubble. It was a miracle you survived.”

Dean lets out a strangled laugh. “ _Miracle?_ I wasn’t even _in there!_ I was chained to the post in the _shed_ – I had no fucking clue what was happening! It was all black, and – and I thought I was gonna freeze to death – then there was _so much fire,_ and I thought I was gonna _burn_ to death –” 

One hand snaps up to cover his mouth, the other reaches up to tangle in the hair at the back of his head, and Dean cuts himself off. Abrupt and sharp and merciless. He’s _visibly_ struggling to keep all of that hurt and pain inside of him, eyes screwed shut, hands trembling. 

Castiel curses himself for his careless comment. Dean’s pleas to not be left outdoors make perfect, sickening sense – what he’s describing had clearly not been the first time he’d been hurt in that way, _punished_ in that way. 

Slowly, he reaches out again to take Dean’s hand in his own, pulling it gently away from the tight grip he has on his hair. He squeezes it. “I’m sorry.” He waits for Dean to breathe again, his eyes still closed, his hand shaking in Castiel’s grip as he tries desperately to keep his emotions in check. “But you do not belong to him anymore. There is _nothing_ he could do to you, not now.”

“But – but he’ll – he’ll _find_ _me,”_ Dean whispers, hysteria twisting thorns into his tone with frightening speed. “He’ll figure out I’m alive and he’ll – he’s–”

“He will _never_ hurt you again,” Castiel snaps. 

Dean’s eyes jump open, his hand still over his mouth. He stares at Castiel – eyes wide, and green, and red-rimmed. And though he doesn’t want to frighten Dean any further with his sledge-hammer alpha aggression, he can’t help but snarl, “I would kill him _myself_ before I let him touch you.”

The rage in his voice shocks him. But even as he hopes that he hasn’t scared Dean, he realizes that the words are _absolutely_ true. 

Dean doesn’t look frightened, though – he looks _relieved._ He closes his eyes again, his palm gripping Castiel’s hand, and his fear scent recedes the smallest bit. “You mean that, Cas?”

“I do.”

Dean is frozen for another moment – then he exhales, shuddering, and the hand that has been clasped over his mouth flutters up and covers his eyes instead. It isn’t fast enough to hide that they’re wet. “C-Can you – I, uh.” He swallows, the noise thick in the quiet of the room. “I need– I mean, I want–” 

He cuts himself off, jaw working, but Castiel can easily guess what he means. Kneeling down properly, his knees bracketing Dean’s slight frame, he lays a gentle hand right below Dean’s nape and pulls him in. He’s careful to keep the pressure light so that Dean can move away if he wants to, but the omega relaxes immediately, shoulders slumping. He curls forward and drops his forehead onto Castiel’s chest. Inhales audibly. And as ill-advised as their scent bond might be, Castiel is glad for it now, because the sharp edges of Dean’s fear round out almost instantly.

 _“You are safe here,”_ he says firmly, perhaps a little of his alpha tone creeping in; Dean doesn’t seem to have any reaction to it other than a shudder of relief. 

But his scent is still swirling with the remnants of his fear, and Castiel wishes that he could read the young man’s mind to find exactly what he needs to hear. He can’t, though, so he just guesses. “You don’t think he would have sold you, given the circumstances? He lost everything.” 

It would have made sense, financially. The alpha’s business was in shambles, the majority of his stock – not to mention clientele – gone in the flames. The income from even one sold slave would have been better than nothing.

“I think he would’a killed me himself before letting me go,” he mumbles into Castiel’s shirt, shame suffocating his words, dampening even the terror in his scent. “Put too much work into making me his perfect little _bitch.”_

Anger flares in Castiel at the acceptance in Dean’s tone, at the man who’d put it there. He’s careful to marshal it back under control as quickly as possible, taking a deep breath and rubbing Dean’s back a little more firmly. 

He can’t imagine what it would take to break this man down into the _pieces_ he’d been in when Castiel had first seen him; to warp him from rebellion and defiance into exhausted submission and flat, constant dread. Suddenly, _fiercely,_ he wishes that Dean’s former master _was_ alive so that he could kill him himself.

And with that realization comes another: 

The trust Dean has in him is utterly terrifying. That he can even be comforted by an alpha at _all_ is a miracle, and Castiel has no idea how he got lucky enough to be the one to do it. All he knows – utterly _knows –_ is that he has no choice anymore. Not that he ever really had one in the first place. 

He has to protect Dean in the exact way he deserves to be protected, whether he thinks he can or not. 

“Do you know his name?”

Dean shudders, his hands bunching in the fabric of Castiel’s shirt. “He didn’t let me call him by his _name,_ Cas. _Master_ or the whip.”

The last words are strangled, but _rote,_ like he’s heard them many times before, and this time Castiel can’t keep the flare of anger contained, can’t help it when his lip raises up from his teeth in a snarl at the memory of Dean’s whip-marked spine. Dean doesn’t jerk away, though – just stiffens a little before Castiel gets a handle on it, and then relaxes again. Perhaps he is more reassured by the fury than frightened by it, perhaps he understands that it isn’t directed at him – but Castiel still hates himself for giving Dean even a moment of pause. And then he takes in a deep, fortifying breath. 

“Alastair.” 

He whispers the name like a curse, like the mere sound could summon him – and in that tiny word alone, Castiel can hear the echo of _thousands_ of moments of pain and terror and shame. Dean swallows. “I, uh. I heard clients calling him that. Dunno his last name.”

“That’s enough for me to do some research,” Castiel promises, rubbing his hand up and down Dean’s back comfortingly. And he _will_ do some digging, as much as he can. He doesn’t know if he’ll find anything – brothel owners keep themselves anonymous to avoid retaliation, and, on top of that, the so called _victims_ of attacks like Hell endured are never identified, whether they live or not. Some misguided attempt by the government to protect them from further violence, should they survive. But the tip about Dean himself had come from an inside source, and so it’s possible that the information is out there somewhere.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it turns out that the man is alive. If he hadn’t tried to retrieve Dean within the three-day waiting period, it’s unlikely that he _ever_ intends to do so – not that he legally could now. But that will bring no comfort to Dean, terrified out of his _mind_ by a man who spent years making his life a living nightmare. 

“It doesn’t matter either way in regards to your safety, Dean. I meant that.”

Dean nods, a little hitching motion, and Castiel can’t tell if it’s genuine belief in his words or not that causes him to do so. 

And after a bare few minutes of comfort – far less than Dean really needs – the omega pulls himself away, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes quickly. There is steel in his jaw, and even though his fear is still very much a tangible presence in the room, he huffs a short breath out of his nose and shakes his head as though he thinks himself ridiculous. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, his eyes cast away. “Know it sucks for you when I’m… when I wig out like that.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, almost exasperated by the omega’s misplaced concern for him. “Please don’t apologize to me for a perfectly reasonable reaction.”

Dean’s mouth tightens. “No point in it, though,” he mutters. But when it looks like he’s about to say more, to talk down on himself further, Castiel simply lets out a frustrated huff and pulls him in again. 

At first, he’s concerned that this is crossing a line, that he is yet again pushing too far. But, to his relief, Dean goes willingly, not even putting up a token protest. He just snakes his arms around Castiel’s middle and breathes in his scent at the crook of his shoulder, sagging against him.

“You are _unimaginably_ brave,” he can’t help but say, tightening his hold when Dean makes a disbelieving noise. “So brave,” he repeats, firmer this time, his tone booking no argument at all. 

Dean swallows thickly, nestles in closer, and doesn't protest again. 

* * *

For once, Dean doesn’t deny himself the urge to pull all the blankets and pillows off of his bed and arrange them just _so_ in between the bedframe and the wall when he turns in for the night. He figures he’s earned this little act of insanity, after tonight. After learning that Alastair might still be out there. 

His stomach twists, but he just scrunches his nose and takes in Castiel’s warm scent off his shirt, remembers the feeling of the alpha’s hand below his nape. His panic reluctantly slithers back into the shadows. 

It’s not gone completely, of course. Probably won’t ever be, not unless Alastair really _is_ dead. But he feels okay enough – and _determined_ enough – to be able to push it back.

If he’s gonna have nightmares – and man, _is_ he – he might as well make it as obvious as he can that he’s not in Hell when he wakes up. No better way to do that than this, other than maybe sleeping next to Cas. 

And isn’t _that_ a thought. He shakes his head. 

It’s absurdly cathartic to push and tuck blankets and pillows into the little nooks and crannies of his hidey-hole, beyond comforting to curl into his nest of pillows and blankets with the one quilt he _usually_ allows himself draped over him from head to toe. It’s still daytime – the sun hasn’t even begun to set – but he and Cas had eaten an early dinner, and he knows by now that he’ll be alone until morning. So he indulges his weird little urges far more than he ever has before, far more than he probably should. 

Especially considering that Cas apparently thinks he’s sleeping on the bed still. 

Before they’d eaten, he’d asked Dean if he needed to wash the sheets, and he’d almost slipped up by telling him no. Luckily, he’d caught himself just in time, and he’d followed Cas around as he’d stripped Dean’s bed and dumped it in the washer with a frankly insane amount of fabric softener. Dean had only noticed after that it was a brand made especially for omegas – scent neutral. 

It had struck him then how many little things Cas has done for him to make his life more comfortable. He remembers that first terrifying night here, how scared he’d been when Cas had opened the bathroom door to give him the very hoodie he’s wearing now. Only recently had it occurred to him that Cas had not touched those clothes, had made an effort to leave them in a bag so they wouldn’t smell like him. Cas must have also been careful not to go into his room – a room _in his own house –_ so that it didn’t smell like an alpha when he arrived. 

Cas does stuff like that for him all the time. Speaks softly, announces his presence wherever he goes. Frequently asks for his preference when they eat, _always_ asks permission to enter his room. And as he lays here in his nest of blankets and pillows – all of which _do_ smell like Cas, now, probably intentionally so, since he knows they’re bonded and knows how much it helps Dean – he feels a sharp stinging in the back of his eyes. 

The alpha had helped him make his bed. Had lingered after they were finished, eyeing Dean like he was worried about him, like he wanted to offer to stay. But when Dean had said nothing, he’d eventually left him alone, if only with a firm reminder to come downstairs if he wanted company.

Christ, he’s so fucking lucky. 

Dean could happily spend the rest of his days just like this. After all, it’s the happiest he’s been in years, the _safest_ he’s been since he was a little kid. It’s such a far cry from his life with Alastair that he feels like a different person, almost (but not quite) like the Dean from that time was some poor bastard that he can’t relate to anymore. 

He would be content to live this way forever. He has a feeling, though, that what he sees as the pinnacle of his existence is just the beginning of what Cas wants him to do with his new life. 

The thought scares him. He’s acting like he’s free – but he _isn’t._ And the line is getting so blurred that, one of these days, he might manage to forget completely that he is still owned. That he can still be hurt and punished and have everything taken away from at a moment’s notice. 

He’s beyond worrying that _Cas_ will ever do that to him, but he isn’t the only alpha Dean will ever interact with again. At this point, he’s terrified that he won’t remember how to be a slave at _all_ when he’s finally expected to be one again. Alphas in general usually expect omegas, especially omega slaves, to behave a certain way; hell, most _betas_ wouldn’t let Dean act like he does here. 

And if _Alastair_ finds him… 

He tries to chase that thought off, tries to curl tighter into the blankets and enjoy the warmth and peace all around him. He even feels himself drifting off once or twice as the sun sets and the moon rises. But every time sleep tries to take him, a memory of his former master creeps into his head, clawing and twisting up his peace until he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to sleep at all. There’s a low, constant dread in his bones, buzzing just loudly enough that he can’t ignore it. 

By the time he gives up completely, the moon is high in the sky.

There’s a small _ping_ somewhere to the left of him, and it startles him so badly that he jerks upright, nearly scrambling all the way to his knees. But it’s just his phone, of course. His _phone,_ which Cas gave to him free of charge. He’s been plugging it very carefully into the outlet next to his bed, mindful of Castiel’s warning that it would need to be charged frequently to work. 

Heart still pounding, he fumbles with it for a moment before he remembers how to unlock it, and when he does he’s greeted with a little bubble on the screen with Cas’s name in it. 

> _Are you asleep, Dean?_

He reads and re-reads it a few times before it makes sense. Closing his eyes, he blows a slow breath out of his mouth and waits until his shoulders relax. Afraid of a friggin’ _phone,_ dammit.

He pokes at the thing till he’s sure he’s actually replying to Cas’s message, self-conscious about how long it takes. 

> _wide awake._

He sends it off, then waits for a reply, his nose a scant two inches from the screen, the blanket over his head. It appears a few seconds later. 

> _Oh._
> 
> _I’m glad I didn’t wake you._

He closes his eyes for a moment, weirdly giddy from such a normal conversation. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since he was able to use a phone at all. He’d seen other people use them, of course – his masters’ phones had evolved with the times over the years, obviously. But the only thing Dean had been worried about was if they’d been using those phones to record him. Not that could have done anything about it. 

It’s just such a… such a _normal_ thing. Probably the most normal thing he’s had in a decade. Cas didn’t need to get him a phone, but he did, and now Dean can ostensibly call or text anyone he wants. It doesn’t really matter that he doesn’t know how to use the thing, or that he’s got a grand total of three contacts. It’s the gesture that makes his stomach flutter with some emotion he doesn’t understand, makes him want to thank Cas any way the alpha will let him. 

Makes it to where it’s _almost_ possible to put Alastair out of his mind completely. 

After a while, three little dots appear and then disappear, appear and then disappear. Dean figures that’s some sort of indication that Cas is typing, and he watches them avidly.

> _How are you feeling?_

Dean snorts. Scared out of his mind? Confused as hell? Terrified of his future? 

> _im ok._

He bites his lip. Decides he can afford to be a little more honest. 

> _well. as ok as i ever am i guess._
> 
> _cant sleep._

Cas doesn’t wait long to reply. 

> _You are welcome down in the living room._

Dean feels a smile tugging at his face, feels his chest lighten. Cas had only told him the same thing about fifty times before he left after dinner, and Dean’s gotta wonder if the alpha is just as interested in his company as Dean is interested in his, considering what time it is.

Before he can think better of it, he extricates himself from his cocoon of bedding and pads downstairs, snagging a blanket to wrap around his shoulders as he goes. 

Cas looks up at him right away when he tentatively inches through the arch that makes up the doorway. He looks sleep-rumpled, hair in every direction and clothes wrinkled. His phone is gripped in both hands. But when he sees Dean, he smiles, the expression genuinely pleased, and some of the tension fades from his shoulders. 

“Would you like some tea?”

Dean’s never drank tea in his life. But he nods anyway, smart enough to recognize that Cas probably just wants to feel proactive. He used to be the same way with Sam, when the kid was sick or even just feeling down – constantly moving, cooking and cleaning and hovering a little too much. But it had made him feel important, made him feel like he was actually _helping_ when he could get Sam to eat something, to drink his favorite hot cocoa; to laugh at a story, a joke. 

He settles down against the couch, already more at ease with Cas’s scent curling around him. Eyes drooping, he relaxes, listening to the faint noises of Cas bumbling around in the kitchen, the low murmur of the television in front of him, nearly inaudible. 

Cas’s low voice startles him a little, and he jumps. “It’s warm – be careful,” he says, handing Dean a mug. It’s got a goose with an honest to God bow-tie on it, like the old lady dishes he used to find in droves at the thrift store. It makes him grin. 

Oblivious, Cas settles in next to him. Their knees are touching. Just for something to do, Dean takes a sip of his tea. 

His grimace must show on his face – Castiel chuckles. The sound is so gentle that Dean doesn’t feel a hint of nervousness about being so obviously ungrateful. “Chamomile. It’s not for everyone.”

“Tastes like a candle,” Dean admits, holding the mug in both his hands anyway. It’s warm. He blows on the steam. Gives in, and asks, “How come you ain’t asleep, Cas?”

The alpha makes a low noise, sipping on his own tea. “I could ask you the same.”

“Yeah, but you know why _I_ can’t sleep.” 

Cas has a small, sad smile on his face. He’s looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “I suppose so,” he admits, taking another long sip.

Dean nudges his knee with his own; insistent, for some reason, even though he’s nervous to push. There are bags under the alpha’s eyes that he doesn’t like, wrinkles in his forehead he doesn’t like, and he’s gotta know why they’re there, all of a sudden – gotta know what could be so bad that it could get under the skin of an alpha like Cas. “What gives?”

With a sigh, Cas lowers his mug. “I’m not sure, honestly. This is not out of the ordinary, though. I am not what you would call a… _routine_ sleeper.” 

“Insomnia?” Dean asks, the word tasting strange in his mouth. It’s a term from a long time ago, some half remembered vocabulary from his childhood that by all rights shouldn’t be in his brain anymore. But it is, and Castiel nods slowly. “You do this a lot, then?”

Cas quirks his mouth into something like a smile, something like a grimace. “Yes. I do this a lot.”

Suddenly, Dean can identify the feeling that’s been curling into his chest for the last few minutes. 

It’s _curiosity._

It’s… weird. He’s had no reason to be curious about much of anything in a long, long time. He's dreaded things, and he’s waited for things, and he’s worried about things. But he hasn’t had the luxury of being curious for a while now. To do that, he’d need to have a second to _breathe,_ to feel safe enough to care about anything except his own safety and continued survival. 

He has that time, now. And he finds that, more than anything, he wants to understand the man sitting on the ground next to him. Wants to know what’s keeping him awake, so he can put it to sleep. 

Unfortunately, Cas doesn’t seem all that open to being psychoanalyzed, right now: he sighs and reaches back to plunk his mug down on the side table instead of answering Dean’s unspoken question. The shadows under his eyes seem as obvious as bruises. Dean has to wonder how long they’ve been there. Wonders why it took him so long to notice. 

“Is it… me?” he asks after a while, clearing his throat. “I mean, like. I know it makes you all…” he makes a vague fluttery motion with his hand, “when I’m nervous. I didn’t mean to...”

“It isn’t that at all, Dean,” Cas says, shaking his head. His mouth is pressed into a frown. 

Dean stares at him. Hard. “Really?” he asks, skepticism clear in his tone even though he probably shouldn’t be so friggin’ obvious about it. 

Cas opens his mouth, probably to argue… and then he deflates. A little sheepish, he rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “Well. Perhaps a little.” He looks over at Dean ruefully. “I had no idea that it would affect me to this degree.”

Guilt worms its way into Dean’s stomach. Just like him to crash land in someone else’s life and fuck it up. And he isn’t even allowed to be _ashamed,_ apparently, because Cas gives him a sharp look a moment later, his eyes narrowed. 

“You cannot help how you feel, and I won’t have you apologizing for it,” he says, almost cold with how serious he’s being. “If you think our suffering is in any way comparable–”

“It’s not the goddamn trauma olympics, Cas,” Dean bites out, angry without exactly knowing why. He’s entitled to be fucking _worried_ about someone, isn’t he? He’s entitled to care? Or is his life still so fucked up that it’s _laughable_ to think he can possibly do anything to help anyone else?

He closes his eyes, presses his lips together so nothing else stupid comes out of them. Who the fuck does he think he is? Cas doesn’t need his help. No one needs his fucking _help._

Castiel’s hand on his isn’t a surprise, at this point. But his words still sort of are. “I’m sorry,” he starts, his words soft and so genuine that Dean can hardly stand it. “I only meant that…” he takes in a breath. “That you shouldn’t berate yourself for hurting, Dean. Or blame yourself for my lack of experience in handling these… instincts.” 

Dean looks over at him – he’s frowning down at their joined hands. Cas looks… he looks _lost,_ if Dean had to put a word to it. And sure, Dean’s been through some shit. But that doesn’t mean that what Cas is going through doesn’t matter, doesn’t mean that he isn’t allowed to be confused or complain about things he doesn’t understand – things that, sometimes, Dean thinks might actually scare him. 

Cas is trying to act like the only one who’s allowed to suffer is Dean, and that just isn’t the truth. So he takes a deep breath and pushes all his bullshit to the side, at least for a little while. Buries the uncertainty and the guilt and the fear. Finds that little nugget of a calm center that he’s carried with him all this time, and brushes the dust off. 

Initially, Cas stiffens when Dean leans against him. He’s obviously surprised, and with good reason – Dean ain’t exactly been the one to reach out first for this kind of stuff, not since Balthazar came over. But he does now, twining his fingers with the alpha’s and reminding himself that he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe. 

And the more he says it, the more he breathes in this house and these books and _Cas,_ the more he believes it. And the more he believes it, the more Cas relaxes against him, too, till he’s got his head leaning on top of Dean’s own. It’s a comfortable weight. 

They both sigh out, long and low. 

“Would you… would it be helpful, I mean. If...” Cas starts and then stops, weirdly hesitant. It’s a sharp contrast from his _alpha_ mode from before, so different from the way he seems to automatically take charge whenever Dean is freaking the hell out. He seems almost scared; Dean can hear him swallow, he’s so close. 

“Probably, yeah,” he says after a moment, trusting that whatever he has in mind is probably in his best interest. 

Castiel laughs a little, but he complies; after a moment’s hesitation, he maneuvers Dean until he’s got his arm wrapped around his shoulders. Dean’s a big fan – no doubt about it – but he needs a little more, so he just slumps until he’s pretty much horizontal, his body still wrapped in the blanket enough that he’s got a flimsy barrier between himself and Cas. When he drops his cheek against Cas’s thigh, facing away, the alpha just rests his arm against Dean’s chest and holds his hand, the long line of it warm against his ribs. He can’t suppress a pleasant shiver when his other hand reaches up to card through his hair. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas rumbles after a while, his voice warm and relaxed. 

Dean’s asleep before he can reply. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm posting this one a little late, lovelies! Even though I'm on break, it's been a very busy week. But hey, look at that - I broke 100k! This is EASILY the longest thing I've ever written. I'm gonna go ahead and be proud of myself. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a filler, so I'm sorry for that. I will say, though, that our boys are gonna be on quite the roller coaster for the next few! So maybe this is a good break in between. Likewise, there's a distinct lack of fluff in this one, but I promise I'll make it up to you in the next few! Don't hate me! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to those of your that review! It always fills me with so much joy to read your thoughts and opinions and predictions. And please know that without reviewers like you, I'd be much worse about procrastinating on chapters... 
> 
> One last bit - thirdleaflogic has struck again! They've made a beautiful mini-comic of chapter 21 that I'm determined to figure out how to embed it into the fic itself. In the meantime, you can go to https://thirdleaflogic.tumblr.com if you'd like to see it! All the love to you - getting fanart makes me cry T-T

Dean wakes up on the couch with sunlight on his face. 

Being off the floor doesn’t spark panic in him, for once. He blinks slowly, shifting slightly under the blanket draped over him. He’s warm, and he’s comfortable. Nestling his cheek into the pillow Cas must have brought downstairs for him with a small noise of satisfaction, he closes his eyes against the bright morning sun and breathes out a long sigh. 

Nothing has been solved, not really. Dean still has no idea whether or not Alastair is alive, whether he’s looking for him. But whatever magic Cas had worked last night seems to have extended into the morning anyway – he’s so calm that he feels like syrup. 

He doesn’t hear Cas in the kitchen, so he figures he must have finally gone to bed at some point in the night and is still sleeping. Dean only vaguely remembers waking up himself, being shuffled onto the couch, the alpha’s warm hands tucking the blanket around him. In any other situation, he would have woken up fighting – kicking, clawing, _biting,_ trying his absolute damnedest to be sure that no alpha could get a hand on his neck. Not without a fight. As per usual, though, nothing about Cas had rung his alarm bells, and he’d been totally content to let the dude manhandle him. 

He can’t say he minds all that much. 

Eventually, he pulls himself from the sofa, stretches his arms over his head, and pads upstairs for a shower. He expertly avoids his reflection as he undresses – same thing he’s done every day since the first night he was here – and hops in, the warm water cascading over his shoulders and head. He scrubs up without really looking down at himself, still unprepared to see what his body looks like in the bright bathroom light. At least the bruises from the cane are gone. Nothing but a bad memory now. 

Even that is enough to make his stomach roll, so he forces himself to think about something else. Mainly, about Cas. 

He knows basically nothing about the dude. The realization has come over him slowly, over the past few days. Now that he’s not in danger all the time, now that he has time to _think,_ he’s sort of realized that Castiel is a complete mystery to him. Not that he’s really asked for any details about his life. Dean’s had a few other things to worry about. 

He knows very little, but he tries to list it off in his head. Cas is well off, obviously, and has been for his whole life, according to what Balthazar told him. He’s an unmated alpha at an age where most people have paired off, if they’re ever going to. He spends all his time working on the computer, lives out in the middle of nowhere, and the only friends Dean has heard him mention seem to consist of an omega ex-slave, a doctor, and a therapist. All of whom he pays. Cas has not mentioned any family, has not said anything about how or where he grew up. Has not even told Dean, really, what he _does_ at his job. 

Conversely, Cas knows a lot about Dean, if only through the dynamics of their relationship. He knows how many times Dean has run away and been caught, knows what he’s been trained to do, has seen the documentation of the worst injuries and the worst days of his life. He’s seen the sheer number of owners Dean’s had, knows he sold _himself,_ knows the incalculable number of ways that he’s fucked up. 

Cas knows about Sammy. Not much, but he does know. The thought doesn’t spark the same raw panic in him that it had before, but it still makes him a little nauseous. He slides soap down his arms and hugs himself in the process, taking a deep breath. 

Dean hasn’t exactly asked the dude for his life story, so he can’t be upset about how little he knows. But just like last night, he feels curiosity unfurling in him, feels himself itching to _learn._ Itching to figure out why a dude like Cas, who has _everything,_ would spend his time helping people who have nothing at all. Less than nothing at all. Why he would care in the first place about people like Dean, who should be nothing but gum under his shoe. 

The only way he’s going to know is if he asks. The thought makes something nervous, but not entirely unpleasant, flutter inside of him. 

When he finally hauls himself out of the shower and goes to his room, he beelines straight for his phone. He’d left it up here last night, and even though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, he honestly just wants to look back at Castiel’s messages, wants to feel that little flutter of happiness and comfort that they’d elicited last night. But when he unlocks his phone, he’s startled to see messages from someone new. 

Balthazar had texted him about twenty minutes ago. He taps on the new conversation with a tiny trill of trepidation that intensifies into nausea when he reads it. 

> _nothing on that alastair bastard yet_
> 
> _but ive got ppl on it_

Dean swallows. Castiel had told him he would look – somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that that would mean he’d rope in _other_ people. But he figures it makes sense. 

He bites his lip, looks down at the two little bubbles. Proof that there’s more people than just Cas who care about him, for no real reason other than that they can. His text back seems pitiful in comparison, but it’s all he can think to say.

> _thank you._
> 
> _thank me when we find smthng_
> 
> _cassie is looking 2, just so u kno_

Dean closes his eyes. Makes himself tap out and send his next message, because he needs to _know,_ even if he won’t like the answer.

> _what happens if hes alive_

Bathazar’s replies shoot in like bullets. 

> _fuck all happens, winchester._
> 
> _hes got 0 right to u at this point_
> 
> _he didnt claim u within the window, so he has no case._

Dean shudders. He’s so, _so_ glad that he hadn’t. But there’s still that lingering voice inside of him, the whispering little snake that tells him Alastair would never have let him go if he’d had the choice. That the man was not the type to let his toys out of his clutches, whatever the cost. 

The alpha’s awful possessiveness is something he will _never_ forget. The claws in his hair, holding his head down against his hips; the jerk on the chain on his collar when the man would drag him to a new client. The hand around his throat, the whispered, sour _mine_ in his ear. 

So, no. Alastair wouldn’t have let him off easy. 

He _prays_ that means he’s dead. Because the alternative means that Dean can only rely on _slave law_ to keep him safe – not exactly something he’s got confidence in. Alastair didn’t give a shit about slave law. That had become clear the first time Dean had escaped. 

He _should_ have been reported missing. It _should_ have been capture-cops that found him, or bounty hunters. He _should_ have gone to be retrained for a minimum of a few weeks. That had always been the case before. After all, slaves that weren’t brainwashed enough were _dangerous._ They had to be broken in again before being returned to the outside world. So Dean had been confident that he’d get at least _some_ reprieve from Hell, some moments of torment that were at least a lower level of sadism than he’d come to know. 

Instead, it’d been one of Alastair’s gang that had caught him. 

Dean knows for sure, now, because there’d been no reports of escape attempts in Alastair’s portion of the file. His master hadn’t reported him missing – he’d _hunted_ him. 

Abbadon had been the one to catch him unaware. She’d found his attempt at escape _hilarious,_ had snatched him up by the collar in an abandoned house he’d holed up in and twisted it till he couldn’t breathe. She’d stabbed a needle into him that had knocked him out cold. And then he’d woken up with a vicious headache and a knife in his gut. 

It’d been the same every other time he’d run, too. Alastair had, he’s sure, somehow hacked or bribed his way to the tracking database that cops used to hunt runaways down. And for whatever reason, he’d much preferred punishing Dean _himself_ rather than letting the training centers do it.

That’s… now that he thinks about it, that’s probably pretty important information. 

> _i ran three times when i was with him._
> 
> _come again?_
> 
> _no mention of THAT in ur file._
> 
> _he didnt report it._
> 
> _p sure he tracked me himself._

There’s a slight lull before Balthazar replies. His words, while a little harsh, do a lot to settle the anxiety twisting his stomach into knots.

> _wouldve been good 2 kno earlier._
> 
> _but that actually makes my job easier_
> 
> _puts his grubby little prints all over the network_

He doesn’t explain how, but he doesn’t really need to. Dean trusts that Balthazar isn’t the type to offer up useless platitudes. So if he says it is a good thing, it probably is. 

> _speaking of_
> 
> _hows that new-tech learning curve coming along?_

Dean huffs out a small laugh. It’s nice to talk to someone who has an idea of what he’s going through. Cas is great, obviously, but Balthazar has _been_ there. Knows his fears, knows the _cause_ of his fears better than Dean probably does himself. It’s a relief not to have to explain, for once. A relief not to have to deal with someone’s sympathy over something no one can change. 

The older omega knows _exactly_ what it means that Alastair caught him himself, and understands that the fact that Dean had _stopped_ running shows exactly how bad the man’s punishments had been. And rather than dig in, or make him relive it or talk about it, he’s changed the subject. 

> _not all that great._
> 
> _turns out a lot of stuff changes when you aint paying attention._
> 
> _well ur typing. thats a start._
> 
> _did cassie tell u about google yet?_

Dean frowns. He remembers Google – Cas doesn’t have to teach him about _that._ He’s not that clueless. He types his reply defensively, annoyed with the idea that Balthazar thinks he’s slow or something. 

> _i do remember some stuff. not totally stupid._
> 
> _who said u were stupid?_
> 
> _just wanted 2 kno if he showd u how to use it_

Dean stares at the message for a second before he can comprehend it. He feels like he should be having some sort of reaction to that, but instead he feels a little blank. A little like he’s holding his breath. It’s probably a solid minute before he can type out,

> _what do you mean_
> 
> _i dont mess with his computer_

Balthazar doesn’t answer him right away – the three dots appear and then disappear a few times. When the message does come through, it’s followed up by several more, popping on the screen one right after another. 

> _i meant u can google stuff on the phone_
> 
> _its like a mini computer_
> 
> _u can use the internet on it_
> 
> _he can show it 2 u_

Dean stares down at the little device in his hands. He’d known that phones had changed a lot since he last had one. He knows they can video stuff and take pictures that don’t look like shit, he knows they can play music. That’s all stuff he’s seen his masters do. But this – the idea that he has unlimited access to information – floors him. 

He can look up anything. _Anything._

That… does not seem like something he should be able to do. He feels, suddenly, like he’s doing something wrong, like he’s overstepped his bounds. Like he’s taking liberties he absolutely shouldn’t. 

Because he doesn’t have the right, does he? There’s no way that Cas would want him to do that. The alpha cares about him, sure, but there’s still some things that a slave just… _doesn’t_ do. 

> _i cant do that._

He types out the message numbly, _sends_ it numbly, not sure what else to say. But Balthazar’s responses are quick, like he’d expected Dean to reply that way and has been preparing an argument. 

> _yes u can_
> 
> _cassie set it up with internet and he wants u 2 use it_
> 
> _if u want 2_

There’s a bit of a pause, and then,

> _a lot has changed, winchester. u gotta rejoin the world at some point._

Dean swallows. He puts the phone down, then turns it over for good measure. And before he has to think about it, before he has to make any sort of choice, Cas turns on the morning news downstairs and gives him the perfect excuse not to.

He leaves the phone where it is, shoves his nerves down and away, and retreats downstairs for breakfast. 

* * *

“I was thinking that you might appreciate some more appropriate clothing.” The alpha’s words are neutral, non-threatening as always, but they still make Dean’s stomach do a little flip.

Dean looks up from his bowl in surprise. Cas had opted for a simple breakfast, claiming that he didn’t want Dean to have to wash yet another pan. Dean’s just as happy with the cheerios as anything else. He’s nowhere near the point where he’s going to start being picky with food, bell peppers aside. His stomach is still unsettled after his and Balthazar’s discussion, anyway – this bland food is a blessing. Castiel munches his portion silently, waiting for Dean to respond with trademark patience. 

“I don’t need more clothes,” he says blankly. 

He’s got no complaints. He’s comfortable in these soft fabrics, plain as they are. They smell familiar. Comforting. The sweatpants and hoodies the alpha had given him are more than enough – he hasn’t even done the laundry yet. Cas did it himself a few days ago, and to Dean’s satisfaction that had meant that his scent had been all over his shirts and pants when he’d discovered them folded neatly on his bed. He’d had to stop thinking about that very fast and has carefully skirted around the idea that he _enjoys_ smelling like Cas ever since. 

Being comforted by his scent is one thing. Carrying it around like a badge on his clothes is another. 

Cas raises one thick eyebrow at his outfit. “That sweatshirt is at least two sizes too large.” He pours more cereal into his bowl and offers the box to Dean, who shakes his head. “Besides, I meant that you might like to have clothes that aren’t strictly loungewear. If nothing else, you need a proper winter jacket and some boots.”

The alpha doesn’t say it specifically, but he figures that means that he might want Dean to… go outside. It’s been so long since he’s looked at snow with anything but dread that he’s not sure how that will go. Probably badly, if he had to guess. 

“Oh.” He sounds stupid. Ungrateful. But he can’t do anything about it, because his throat feels like he’s been eating insulation instead of cheerios. “Uh. Okay.”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “You seem less enthusiastic than I’d anticipated.”

Dean ducks his head, and the alpha waits patiently for an explanation. Dean definitely owes him one. “I’m grateful for what I got, Cas,” he says helplessly, and Castiel’s expression softens. 

“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve more,” he replies, gently insistent. 

Dean frowns down at the little o’s of cereal floating around in his bowl. He doesn’t _deserve_ anything that Cas has done for him. And he knows without having to ask that the alpha doesn’t expect him to work off the cost of these gifts, either. It makes him feel strange. Just one more thing to add to his growing pile of debt.

Just one more reason he’d be absolutely _destroyed_ if he ever went back to Alastair. The only reason he’d worn clothes _there_ was so that an alpha would get the savage pleasure of ripping them off.

“You just gonna order some stuff, or what?”

“I was actually thinking we could go out and look in person.”

Dean feels his mouth go dry. “Go… like, go to the store?” Cas looks at him steadily. “Both of us?”

“Yes. If you’re ready for that.”

He isn’t. Jesus _Christ_ , he isn’t. 

It’s been a really long time since he’s been out in society and he’s not sure he remembers how he’s supposed to act, how _slaves_ are supposed to act in public. Most of his previous owners had kept him within the confines of their home – he wasn’t trustworthy enough to be an errand boy. Too much of a flight risk. 

He’s terrified that he’s going to fuck it up if they go out into the real world, that he’s going to embarrass Cas in some unforgivable way, get them both in trouble. 

But… 

He clenches his fists. Once upon a time, Dean might have been able to call himself brave. He’s fought, and he’s run, and he’s _resisted_ for years. Being here, with Cas? Away from everything and everyone that could conceivably hurt him? It’s _spoiled_ him. Made him forget that he’s not allowed to hide forever. 

A trip to a friggin’ _department_ _store_ shouldn’t be where he draws the line in the proverbial sand. He can tell that Cas wants this – the dude is probably getting stir crazy, locked up in the house with only him for company for the last couple of months. He owes it to the man to agree, to reward Cas’s hopeful look with an attempt to act _normal._

He has a feeling that he’ll regret it, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”

Cas smiles. “I’ll go and get ready.” He pauses, frowns. “My shoes will be large on you, I think, but they’ll do until we can find something in your size.” Then he hesitates, looking at Dean carefully. “I also have a pair of jeans that may just fit you, at least with a belt, and a winter jacket. They’re both freshly washed, but…”

He doesn’t have to explain. Dean knows that they will smell like the alpha, and with anyone else that would disgust him – he’d feel claimed, feel like Castiel was being territorial. Instead, the idea that he’ll be carrying around the alpha’s scent brings him nothing but relief. And, Dean’s comfort aside, it will tell other alphas that he belongs to someone already. It won’t stop all of them, but it will discourage a few, and that’s more than enough for him to be okay with this. 

“That’s fine, Cas. You smell good.” And goddammit, he _blushes_ as soon as he hears himself – like a giggly fucking middle-schooler. “Uh – I mean. You know. You don’t reek, or anything.” 

Cas, God help him, actually looks a little _smug._ It’s the closest he’s come to teasing Dean since he got here. “Knothead,” Dean accuses lightly, and he doesn’t even have time to be afraid of what he just said before Cas bursts out laughing. The sound is contagious enough that he grins, too, finally chuckling a little as the alpha goes on. It is a little ridiculous that either of them are hung up on _this,_ of all things – he and Cas have already scent bonded, and on the scale of one to embarrassing as _hell,_ he’s maxed out with that alone. 

“Apologies,” Cas finally says, a little smile on his face. “I’ll admit I’m not really used to this odd alpha obsession with scenting.”

“Never had an omega before?” Dean teases. There’s a double meaning to the words that Cas doesn’t miss, and the alpha shakes his head. 

“No,” he says bluntly. Then, in a slightly more sheepish tone of voice, “I’ve never had a serious relationship with anyone, really. Just a few short-lived beta partners in college.”

Dean blinks at him. Cas is an omega housewife’s wet dream – tall, lean and muscular, chiseled jaw and bright blue eyes. He finds it more than a little weird that he doesn’t have a string of admirers at his beck and call. That he hasn’t bonded with anyone else before now. 

Then again, with everything he’s learned about Castiel’s personality, he shouldn’t be all that surprised. He doesn’t seem the type to take things like that lightly. Doesn’t seem like the type to prowl bars and give false promises. 

He feels an odd little kernel of something like _pride_ in his chest. That means that Cas has only ever scented _him._ He knows that their scent bond was accidental, but… 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I ain’t really all that up to date with my instincts either,” Dean half jokes, trying to move past his weird little moment of smug satisfaction. “I’m not sure I do a single damn thing that omegas are supposed to.” Not willingly, anyway. 

The alpha shrugs. “You are nesting, at least.”

Dean opens his mouth automatically to disagree, to say that he hasn’t ever, _won’t_ ever be caught doing something as nauseating and girly as _nesting._ But then he looks around at the stacks of books surrounding them, thinks of his little pile in his bedroom that he had to carefully dismantle this morning… and flushes scarlet. 

Shit. He _is_ nesting. 

He can feel Cas frowning at him even though he’s dropped his eyes, picking up immediately on his embarrassment. “Have you not… nested before?”

Dean shrugs, trying to brush it off, but the gesture doesn’t come off as nonchalant as he wants it to. “Sure, I guess I sort of did when I was a kid. That was just cleaning to me back then, though, you know? Keeping the place in order and all that.” He swallows, desperately stepping around the memories that statement drags up. The last thing he needs to think about right now is his dad. Or Sammy. 

“And, uh. Not like I had a lot of reason to. Um. After.” 

The thought of doing something like nesting in Hell was… Yeah. No. Even if he’d felt any inclination to do so at all, it wouldn’t have mattered – Alastair hadn’t even let him keep a _shirt_ for any length of time, let alone a blanket or a pillow, or the freedom he’d need to organize his space. 

The alpha’s frown deepens until it’s almost painful to look at. “That’s something you could talk to Dr. Laffite about. I believe Balthazar mentioned him, when you saw him last? He’s our resident therapist.”

The words sting sharply, and he flinches a little before he can hide his reaction. 

He ain’t exactly keen on exposing his issues and damage to some random dude he’s never met before – and he doubts it would help anyway. He can see the hope in Cas’s expression. Hope that someone else, for once, will be able to deal with Dean’s long list of issues. His good mood sours until it’s gone – how could he have forgotten, even for a moment, the life he lives, the _burden_ he is?

But rather than make some pussy-foot excuse about not feeling comfortable about the idea, Dean aims for dismissive – he shrugs again, a little angrily this time around. “Talk about what? That I don’t understand how being an omega is supposed to work?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies gently, and his failure to rise to Dean’s bait pisses him off and embarrasses him in equal measure. “Nesting is a very basic omega instinct, one you should be quite familiar with at this point in your life. The fact that you aren’t isn’t your fault,” he adds, when Dean _visibly_ flinches, “but the sooner you become accustomed to those parts of yourself, the more comfortable you will be.”

Dean scoffs, his throat tight. “Don’t worry about that. I’m plenty familiar with my friggin’ bitch side.”

“Do _not_ refer to yourself that way,” Castiel snaps. 

Caught off guard, Dean takes an involuntary, stumbling step backward. The alpha’s anger is sharp as razor wire, wrapping around him, squeezing at his throat. He isn’t breathing. He _almost_ drops to his knees on instinct alone, and the only reason he doesn’t is that he can’t seem to _move._

The tension lasts about half a second before the irritation drops off of Castiel’s face, and he blinks, as if confused by his own behavior. The fury in his expression – and his scent – fades, and then suddenly Dean can move again. He sucks in a shaky breath. Takes another step back, keen for a little more distance, because he thinks that if he doesn’t get it he’s going to end up on the floor even now, from the lingering scent of an alpha’s anger alone. 

It’s a harsh reminder of his place.

He can’t look Cas in the eye, but he can feel the alpha’s gaze on him. “I,” Cas starts, and then stops, his voice a little strained. “I apologize. I don’t really… I don’t know what that was.” 

Dean tries to glance up, tries to meet his eyes and brush it off… but he _can’t._ His heart is too busy trying to pound out of his chest.

Cas smells guilty.

Dean swallows, makes an effort to still his shaking hands. He knows the alpha can smell the fear on him just as clearly, and that makes this all the worse. He’s embarrassed, more than anything, by this reaction – he _believes_ that Cas doesn’t intend to hurt him, but he can’t stop the instinctive flash of terror when he sees anger in an alpha’s eyes or hears it in their voice.

“Dean,” Cas says gently, when he says nothing, and that’s _worse_ than the rage, because the dude probably pities him. “Truly. I am not angry at you. I apologize for acting as though I was.”

Dean just shakes his head, dismissing the apology as unnecessary as best he can since he still can’t seem to talk for some reason. Alphas don’t say sorry, in his experience, especially not over their anger – no matter how irrational it is. But Cas’s scent doesn’t ease. In fact, he seems even _more_ guilty and upset, and Dean hates that. Hates that the alpha can’t even speak his mind without Dean falling apart. 

There’s a balance, here. Some safe space between being the slave he was trained to be, that he’s _supposed_ to be, and being the normal, unbroken person that Cas wants him to be. But, just like with Balthazar’s revelation that he apparently has unfettered internet access, Dean is paralyzed by too much freedom. Too many choices. 

Because he always seems to make the wrong ones. 

He tries to brush it off, tries to be indifferent and irreverent because that’s how he’s always dealt with his discomfort, with his shame. He forces his head up, forces himself to make eye contact. “Maybe I ain’t the only one that should be talking to a therapist.”

As soon as he hears himself, he pales. He’s prepared for the words to piss off the alpha more, prepared to be told to leave the room or shut his stupid mouth. Prepared, even, deep inside in the corner of his brain that refuses to realize that he’s safe, for a backhand across the face. Wrong choice, _wrong choice._

But Cas just sighs, deflates like Dean’s popped him with a pin. “You’re right, of course.” His mouth twists at the side, not quite a smile. “Perhaps I should book an appointment alongside yours.”

Dean shakes his head, his shoulders dropping as he lets out a breath. For a moment, Cas looks like he’s going to reach forward, to pull him in and let him scent like he has so many times before. 

Then he doesn’t. 

Dean swallows around bitter disappointment, and tells himself it’s exactly what he deserves.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning y'all! I hope you're all hanging in there as the holidays progress. Whether you're back on lock-down or wishing you were, I hope you're staying safe. 
> 
> This is a bit of a longer chapter (for me), but I didn't feel good about breaking it up anywhere. I hope you guys enjoy! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to those of you that review. I cannot describe the giddiness I feel when I see a comment that's multi-paragraphed, or when you guys make predictions about what's coming next, or when you quote a piece of the story back to me and talk about it... AH! It just makes me smile.

If Dean had a tail, it would be between his legs. 

Though he’d pulled on his borrowed clothes in the upstairs bathroom with only token reluctance – not-so-secretly relieved to be surrounded by Cas’s scent – from the jacket down to the shoes, he’s certifiably ridiculous. The alpha’s belt is only _just_ holding up his jeans, cinched down to the very last loop, and they’re high-water on him on top of that. His hoodie, as always, is far too large, the sleeves so much longer than his arms that, half the time, he can’t even see his hands. He has to yank the laces of his borrowed tennis shoes as tight as they’ll go to keep them on his feet.

It all makes him look smaller than he already is. _Feel_ smaller than he already is. 

But. Those things don’t really matter, because this is better than sweatpants and no shoes at all. And it’s comforting to be bundled away under the alpha’s jacket, at least; another layer to hide under.

He needs all the comfort he can get, right now. Especially when he catches sight of his neck, still chafed and bruised from a collar he hasn’t worn in weeks. He can’t meet his own eyes.

He looks naked without something there. He _is_ naked _._ Or he might as well be. 

Well aware that he can’t stall forever, he eventually tears himself away from his reflection in the bathroom mirror and retrieves his phone from his bedroom. He slips it into his pocket without looking at it, afraid that he’ll have another text from Balthazar to panic over. He can only handle so much stress at once. 

When he gets downstairs, Cas is puttering around, grabbing gloves and scarves and keys. Dean hangs back, trying not to let his nerves show through as he plants himself on the second to last step on the stairs to wait. Tries to ignore the roll in his stomach when he thinks about what’s coming next. 

He can’t go outside the house without a collar. He knows that, Cas knows that. The alpha hasn’t mentioned it yet, but Dean is under no illusions. Trying not to be obvious, he buries his nose in Castiel’s zipped up canvas jacket, closes his eyes, and inhales, willing some of his fear away. It’s not working as well as it normally does, unfortunately. Maybe it’s because of their argument – can he call it an argument? – earlier, or maybe it’s just because he’s dreading the feeling of that cold metal and leather around his neck. 

Reminding himself that Cas doesn’t _want_ to collar him sort of helps. He’s the one who took off his collar in the first place – so Dean’s pretty sure this won’t be forever. Almost positive. It’s just something he has to do to get through the day, has to do so that the alpha can go where he wants, can have what he wants. _Dean_ doesn’t want to, but that doesn’t matter. Never has. 

When he opens his eyes, Cas is right in front of him, staring down with a furrowed brow. As usual, Dean’s doing a shit job of hiding his discomfort, and he braces himself for Castiel’s gentle, insistent prodding. Starts preparing his speech about how he understands Cas doesn’t actually want this, but it’s necessary, and he knows it’s temporary, and blah, blah, blah. 

But all the alpha does is hand Dean a thickly knit scarf and gesture toward the outside. “Are you ready?”

Dean holds the scarf in front of him blankly. He’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open. Cas looks even more concerned, so he scrambles up, nodding, and follows him to the garage with questions stuck in his throat. Cas doesn’t say anything, thank God – just gives him one last confused look, and then opens the door for him. The air from the garage is cool on his face. 

He tries to move. But he can’t – he’s stuck in place, staring at the car and the flickering fluorescents, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Don’t I…” The words buckle and splinter under the pressure of his cowardice. He takes a breath, soldiers on. “Don’t I need a collar?”

He asks the question despite everything screaming in him not to, as if staying quiet might make the alpha forget the basic rules of society. But Cas just _looks_ at him, puzzled. He shakes his head. 

“I told you that I would do my best to keep you from having to wear that again.”

“But…” 

His voice is so _small._

It’s not like he _wants_ the collar. Far from it – he’s pretty sure that if Cas puts that thing back on him, he’ll be a step away from hysteria during this whole friggin’ trip. But with these marks around his neck, he knows it will be _painfully_ obvious what he is. The last thing he wants is for Cas to get in trouble over him, over something stupid like this. 

Slaves are supposed to be collared. Always. Wouldn’t want to accidentally treat one like a person, or anything. 

But Castiel’s face just softens. Gently, he takes the long, soft scarf out of Dean’s limp grip and tucks it around his neck, looping it loosely in the front. He holds his hands there for a moment, resting on Dean’s chest. Warm and heavy. 

“There,” he says firmly. His eyes are kind. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” 

With that, he puts on a frankly absurd trench coat and walks into the garage, opening the passenger door for Dean to make it obvious where he’s supposed to sit. Dean hesitates for only a moment more before he scrambles in and buckles his seat-belt, and if there are tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, Cas mercifully doesn’t say a single word about it. 

* * *

Once they’re heading to the department store, Dean takes in the outdoors for the first time in a long time. It’s snowing lightly outside, the afternoon sun obscured by clouds, and the world is very blue. He makes himself look and think about that instead of acknowledging the anxiety snaking through him while sitting up front in the passenger seat. 

It’s the first time he’s done so in far too long. First time in years that he’s been in a car at _all_ and not been terrified out of his mind. 

He doesn’t really remember the drive to Castiel’s home. All he’d been thinking at the time was that he couldn’t throw up, couldn’t throw up, _couldn’t throw up_ ; it would just make things worse for him. He’d been so sleep-deprived and hungry and in so much pain that no other coherent thought would stay in his head – it’d been his fucking mantra for the hours that they’d been in the car. 

He’d been scared shitless at the thought of what Castiel must have bought him for. Terrified, because he didn’t know the rules and had no idea when, or how, he was going to be hurt by the newest in a long line of awful masters. 

If only he’d known.

This time, he watches the cars go by, seeing some of the models for the first time. He stares at the buildings once they get into town, taking in the people and the trees and even the damn billboards, eating it all up with his eyes like he’s starving. And he kind of is – it’s been so long since he’s seen the outside world. So much has changed. More than he expected is exactly the same. 

Castiel parallel parks in front of some classy clothing store clumsily, bumping the curb more than once before he’s satisfied that he’s equi-distant between the cars in front and behind. As he stares out at the snow-dusted roadway, Dean has a sudden pang for the Impala. He wonders if Sam has it now. His dad had always told him it would be his – before he presented, anyway. After that, John hadn’t brought it up again, and the only thing he might have actually _wanted_ to inherit from his father he’d been forbidden from without anyone having to tell him so. 

Omegas didn’t need cool cars. And even though Sam never liked the Impala like he did, it would of course have gone to him – alphas tended to inherit most things just by virtue of their designation. If he had gotten it, he’d probably sold it. Sam was always practical like that.

Dean shakes his head. He probably doesn’t even remember _how_ to drive. Not that he could, anyway, not legally. Castiel would have to apply to get him a slave licence, and with his record he highly doubts he qualifies. Runaways don’t get privileges like that.

Castiel opens his door, and he blinks himself out of his thoughts. 

The air is cold and the warmth of the car almost immediately leeches away. Dean shivers as he steps out, following Cas to the door obediently even though he would much rather stay in the safety of the car. The storefront is gilded and glass and fancy as hell, and Dean can already tell that he’s never been inside a place like this. The damn _mannequins_ would have been suspicious of him. Nevertheless, he steps inside the double doors behind Cas, meekly ducking his head and trying not to chew his damn lip off. 

It’s warm enough inside the building that he can unzip his coat, though he’s careful to leave the scarf in place. He feels secure in the alpha’s jacket, so big it’s swamping him, smelling like fabric softener and rain and honey, and he tries to focus on that rather than on his quickly building unease. He keeps his eyes on Cas. 

Castiel is looking around the store, concentration on his face, probably mapping out every step of this little shopping trip. It's strange to see him outside of his home, but he’s just as in-control as he always seems to be – unflustered, unruffled.

Then Dean makes the mistake of looking around at the bright lights and the customers and the sales reps and the _prices_ for exactly half a second before he _can’t_. 

“Cas,” he whispers, legs frozen in place, throat tight. 

Castiel, who had already gotten a few steps ahead of him, turns around with a distracted look on his face – but when he smells Dean’s fear, the look sharpens into concern. Dean can only meet his eyes for a split second before he drops his gaze to the tile, abruptly feeling the _intense_ urge to kneel on it for the second time in as many hours. 

He should. He _should._

He _can’t._ That would give them away. It would get Cas in trouble, ‘cause he’s not wearing a collar, ‘cause he doesn’t _look_ like a slave – and, and– 

The alpha’s palm is warm when it wraps around Dean’s arm, but he feels far away. “Too much?” Cas asks gently, no judgement in his voice. He keeps his words pitched low, so only Dean can hear. “We can leave.”

Dean struggles with himself, trying to dredge up the courage he needs to restart his brain, but a woman in a store uniform is already ogling him with open curiosity as he stands and shakes in the doorway, and a man is coming in behind them and grumbling about them being in the way as he pushes past, and a little kid is tugging at her mother’s sleeve, pointing at him with a high pitched question on her lips – 

He stares back at the floor with wide eyes, his mind blank. Chest heaving. 

Luckily, Cas makes the decision for him and leads him out the door with his hand around his arm, gently but firmly guiding him to the car. Dean lets him. Doesn’t even think about _not_ letting him. 

He can only breathe again when the doors have shut and the heater goes on full blast. Wrapping his arms around his middle, he hunches and tries desperately to calm down, _furious_ at himself for how quickly that went wrong. Furious that he can’t stop being a little bitch for half a goddamn hour, that he’d _forgotten_ he isn’t normal anymore. 

“I apologize. I realize now that the environment in there is a tad overwhelming.”

When he can open his mouth without risk of puking, Dean scoffs. It’s directed at himself more than Castiel. “It’s just a store, Cas. Ain’t anything you did.”

“Still. I believe I was being a little ambitious.” 

He knows that Cas is trying to make him feel better, but it isn’t helping. He turns away, catches sight of his warped reflection in the tinted glass, and feels worse. He’s a small speck of a _thing_ in these borrowed clothes, a sorry excuse for a pet that’s pretending to be a human being. And because he can’t keep his shit together for something as simple as _shopping,_ he’s going to spend the rest of his days with Castiel in nothing more than sweatpants and a hoodie that isn’t really even his – and he doesn’t know why that bothers him so much all of a sudden, but it _does._

He’s _nothing,_ and everyone can see that. Even when he _wants_ to, even when it would make Cas happy, he’d can’t pretend otherwise.

“I’m such a goddamn fuck-up,” he mutters, wrapping his arms more firmly around himself. 

“You are not,” Castiel growls, “a _fuck-up_.”

Dean swallows around the instinctive fear at the alpha’s tone, just barely manages to keep a grip on himself. He knows that Cas’s irritation with him will not result in a beating. He reminds himself of that, anyway. 

He takes a breath. “I can’t even go into a friggin’ _store_. Those people in there knew what I was the second they saw me.”

“Dean...”

How could he be so stupid as to think he could do anything like a normal person could? How could he be so naive as to think he was _brave?_ He feels raw, exposed. Like a live fucking wire, like he’s just been _whipped_. 

So when Castiel reaches out to touch him, he jerks back and sucks in an instinctual breath, too wired to stop his knee jerk reaction, and shouts, “Just because _you_ act like I’m a real person don’t mean I _am!”_

Castiel is staring at him now, eyes wide, and that makes him feel ten times worse. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and tries desperately not to cry. He’s cried enough. 

After a long few seconds of silence, only his own hitched breathing for company, Cas asks, “Would you like to go home?”

The question is subdued, and Dean _knows_ he hears hurt in the alpha’s voice, even though he’s trying real hard to hide it. He shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Dean, it’s alright if you–”

“Just – just give me a second.”

They both sit in the quiet, the muffled sound of cars passing by the only noise aside from their breathing. And, dear _God,_ Cas actually _is_ giving him time. Just because he asked for it.

In a jerky movement, Dean blindly reaches out and grabs the alpha’s hand, his heart in his throat. He doesn’t know if this is okay, if Cas even wants him to touch after the dramatic, _ungrateful_ way he’s been acting all day. He doesn’t know if he’s entitled to this, if he deserves comfort. 

But Cas, oblivious to his self-flagellation, lets out a sigh of obvious relief. He squeezes gently, and Dean figures he’s in the clear. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. And he is. It’s not Cas’s fault that he’s this way. But the alpha just shakes his head and tightens his grip. Runs his thumb along Dean’s knuckles, and lets him gather his thoughts. 

“I haven’t been out like this in years,” Dean finally admits, his voice breaking a little when he says it. “Last time was… shit. I’m not even sure. _Years.”_

He closes his eyes, concentrates on the feeling of Cas’s hand around his own. “My master took me to a bar with him. He played poker a lot. Gambling problem, I don’t know. The dude went through all his cash in like an hour and then I –” he stops for a moment, takes a breath. “I was the only thing he had left to bet.” 

Dean remembers the ice-cold realization, the _fear_ he’d felt when his master’s eyes had landed on him, calculating and gleeful. The realization that his life was about to go from bad to much, much worse. 

“He lost.” 

The words are choppy. Clipped. Cas doesn’t respond except to squeeze his hand a little tighter – Dean makes a noise that might pass as laughter. “Bit the motherfucker that won soon as he came anywhere near me, so that was the end of that. Back for more retraining.” 

“I hope you took a chunk off of him.”

Dean chokes out another laugh. “He screamed pretty loud, anyway.” He remembers it vividly, the jerk of the leash, pulling him forward; the hand in his hair, forcing him down; the thumb in his mouth, prying his teeth apart. The sweaty palm inching from his scalp down toward his nape and the instinctual panic that sparked – then, the sick _crack_ of bone, the coppery taste of blood and his own terror mixing together until he couldn’t tell them apart. 

He doesn’t tell Cas that the man hit him hard enough after that that he _woke up_ in the training center, jaw aching, throat sore, but he thinks the alpha can probably connect the dots. 

“I’m beginning to realize that I truly have no idea what you’ve gone through,” Cas says eventually, words subdued. “I can guess, of course, and I’ve been working long enough in this profession that I’ve seen many things. But, Dean…”

He trails off, and Dean finally looks up at him, takes in his watering eyes and the clench in his jaw. “You are very brave, to be able to live the life you have lived and still have hope and trust inside of you.”

Those words hit a little too close, make him feel a little too vulnerable. It sort of feels like he’s been slapped, but not in an unpleasant way; a blush is starting to spread across his cheeks. 

Castiel smiles at him, shakes himself. “Home?”

Dean likes the sound of that. Of _home._ But he shakes his head. “No. I… Can we try again? Maybe somewhere a little… less?”

Castiel nods, a thoughtful look on his face. “I do recall a store nearby that does alterations as well as clothing sales – assuming it’s still in the same place. It’s quite a bit smaller. Does that sound better?”

“Sounds expensive.”

Castiel shrugs. “I have considerable wealth,” he says, like it’s nothing. The concept is so foreign to Dean that he can only stare. 

He’d known the alpha was pretty loaded from his house alone. Still – if Cas is willing to drop money on something as insignificant as _slave_ clothes, he must be _rich_. It strikes him that, even if he weren’t a slave and Castiel wasn’t a free man, even if they weren’t alpha and omega, Dean would still be too different from this man to deserve his attention. 

Cas, taking his silence for acceptance, pulls out of the space and back onto the road.

* * *

The second store that he takes Dean to is basically deserted, and he wishes he’d thought of this first. He knows the owner – or at least he knew her. It’s been a long time since they’ve spoken, and he reminds himself that there’s no guarantee she is the same woman he remembers. 

Dean’s still visibly nervous when they walk in, shoulders tense and pulled back, but he doesn’t hesitate in the doorway this time. Instead, he marches forward like he’s headed for a firing squad, head down. Brave.

His head ducks further when Hannah comes barrelling around the corner, and Castiel has to hold his arm firmly to keep him from instinctively dropping to his knees like he’d threatened to do at the last store. Dean steps back and looks at him with naked panic on his face, but he doesn’t have time to reassure him before Hannah is greeting them. 

“Novak! Long time no see, bud! How the hell are you? Still wearing that crazy fucking trench coat, I see.” She’s already talking a mile a minute, just like she always had in college, and Castiel smiles at her through his concern for Dean. He can feel how tight the omega’s muscles are under his hand, how hard he’s trying to stop his shaking. 

“I’m doing well, Hannah. How are you? How is business?” As he speaks, he squeezes Dean’s arm reassuringly and drops his hand out of respect, not wanting to look like he’s being possessive – but in response, Dean lurches toward him, following the loss of contact. His shoulder presses to Castiel’s side.

Oblivious, Hannah looks around the empty store and laughs. “Well, despite what it looks like, I’m doing pretty good. Lots of snobby rich folk like yourself to tailor for.”

Dean’s watching the exchange with wide eyes, and Hannah looks over at him, sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Hannah.”

Dean blinks, looks at Castiel for guidance and waits for him to nod, then slowly puts out his hand in return. Hannah shakes it firmly, her beta scent as neutral as hotel soap, and Dean’s shoulders relax a little. It isn’t until Castiel clears his throat that he remembers to introduce himself in return – he shakes himself and says, “Dean,” his voice a little rough. 

She looks between them quizzically. “Didja’ finally settle down, Novak?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean balk. He settles his hand down on the man’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly, gratified when he lets out a little puff of air. He leaves his hand there. “Dean is a friend.”

She raises an eyebrow but has the tact not to push it. “Good. You’re pretty cute, you know,” she jokes, winking at the omega. “Don’t settle for this old man.”

“You’re only a year younger than me, Hannah,” Castiel grouses, to cover the blush that has sprung to Dean’s cheeks as he ducks his head, and hide his own sudden embarrassment besides.

She groans. “Don’t remind me. Thirties are right around the bend.” Leaning against the counter easily, she spreads her hands. “What can I do yah for, anyway?”

“Dean is in need of a new wardrobe,” he says, ignoring her raised eyebrows at the odd request. “Jeans, shirts, a warm jacket. Formal wear as well, if you have it. Shoes, as well.” 

Hannah looks between them, takes in Dean’s averted eyes and Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, and nods slowly. “Right.” She eyes the oversized jacket Dean’s wearing, her gaze sharp. “I’m going to need to take your measurements, if that’s okay.”

Dean doesn’t appear to realize that she’s talking to him until there’s a lull of silence. He looks up, mouth slightly open. “Uh – yeah. Okay. That’s…” 

He looks over at Castiel, a question on his face, and Castiel nods, not precisely giving permission – it’s still close enough to it that it makes his stomach twist. Dean has been becoming more independent over the last few weeks, but it seems that he’s reverting back to what he knows best now that they’re away from his comfort zone. It breaks Castiel’s heart. “That’s fine, I guess.”

Dean looks much too exposed as he stands in the middle of the room, his arms wrapped around his waist after Hannah helps him remove his jacket. To her credit, she’s professional – she doesn’t manhandle him and is cheerful and chatty as she works, not perturbed in the least when he struggles to answer her friendly questions. It doesn’t appear to bother her that Dean leaves his long sleeves down, that he can’t seem to look her in the eye; she doesn’t even blink when she moves up to his neck to take a measurement and he flinches back, hand wrapping around the scarf as he pales. She just smoothly moves on to his waist and legs, the cloth tape measure hovering just above the omega’s skin.

“What’s your shoe size?”

Dean blinks, returning to the room from wherever he’d been mentally. His eyes flash to Castiel and he’s struck with a pang of guilt. There’s fear in the omega’s gaze. They shouldn’t have done this, not so soon, no matter what Dean had said he was ready for. Castiel is realizing, far too late, that Dean has only gone through with this to please him. 

“Um. I’m not sure.”

She doesn’t remark on the strangeness of that. “I bet it isn’t whatever these boats are,” she jokes, laying her palm on the ground next to Castiel’s shoe. “Wanna step out of those bad boys?”

Vulnerable as he stands in socked feet, Dean’s frame is too small, his shoulders hunched. Castiel tries his best to be a calm presence in the room. He can’t miss the way Dean automatically orients his body to face him, nor the quick pant of an inhale that takes in his scent. And as nice as it feels to know that Dean can be soothed by his presence alone, he wishes that it weren’t necessary at all. 

When Hannah is done, she stands and brushes her hands off on her pants. “You’re thin as a rail, my dude. You’ve gotta let me in on whatever diet you’re on.” She’s obviously joking, trying to put him at ease, but Dean’s face goes disturbingly blank at the casual remark, his hands balling into fists. Hannah looks at him curiously when he doesn’t reply.

His eyes flicker to hers, and slowly, letting loose a sigh, he relaxes his hands. “Wouldn’t recommend it,” he mutters, and Hannah looks at him in confusion for a moment more before her expression abruptly clears, settling into something that resembles a dawning and dangerous fury. 

She whips her eyes to Castiel, her mouth in a thin line. He cringes, waiting for the inevitable accusation, but when she does speak it’s with a cool indifference. It isn’t fooling him for a second. “I’ve got some stuff in stock that might work. Gimme a sec’.”

Once she’s gone from the room, Dean exhales. He lets his shoulders drop, rolling his head back as he tries to work out the tension. Drawing closer, Castiel wraps a loose arm around him, and with a little encouragement the omega shakily presses his nose to the fabric of his coat. His shoulders relax a little. There are moments when Castiel still feels guilty about their scent bond – this is not one of them. He’s grateful that he can provide Dean with any sort of comfort. 

“You’re doing very well,” he murmurs, a quick rub on the man’s arm to back up his words. “I know this is difficult for you. Hannah is a friend. She’s not interested in causing a problem for us.”

“Kinda figured,” he replies gruffly, his eyes closed, “considering she clocked me just now and ain’t said a word.”

Castiel winces. He’d hoped Dean hadn’t noticed, but he should have known better. They don’t step apart from one another until they can hear Hannah returning from the back, a large pile of clothing in her arms. There appears to be everything from jeans to ties to a pair of sturdy boots involved, and she deposits them in Dean’s arms with a cheery smile that seems a little forced. “Wanna go try these on for me, sport?”

Dean blinks at her over the mountain of clothes. She gestures over at a closed off fitting area across the store. “Why don’t you go through those and tell me what fits and what doesn’t? I can make any alterations we need to in a jiffy.” 

She waits until Dean glances over at Cas, receives another nod, and retreats to the fitting room behind at the back of the store. Then she rounds on Castiel, her eyes narrowed as she hisses at him. “Novak. What. The. _Fuck?”_

He suppresses a sigh – it really _had_ been foolish to hope that she wouldn’t notice. “It isn’t what you think, Hannah.”

“Really? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you have a slave. As in, _pro-omega-rights_ Castiel, _anti-_ slavery rebel child _Castiel,_ _owns a slave._ How much have you changed since college?” Her mouth is twisted up in disgust. “Tell me I’m wrong, Novak, because I really want to be.”

“Rest assured that, while he is contracted under me, Dean is not being treated as such.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Nor will he ever be again.”

She glares at him, still suspicious. “But you _do_ own him.”

Castiel makes a face. “... _Technically,_ yes. It’s a stopgap.”

Hannah narrows her eyes further, looking him up and down skeptically. “He’s skinny, Novak. _Really_ skinny.”

“Trust me, I’m well aware,” he says tiredly, looking toward the fitting rooms. “He’s only been with me for a couple of months. Believe it or not, his weight has improved.”

Her mouth twists. “That’s _improved?”_ She stares at him, hands on her hips. He’s not sure whether to be impressed or insulted by her persistent suspicion. “What is this, Castiel? Some random act of kindness? Did you pick him up on a whim?”

He hesitates. “Not… exactly.” 

Her eyebrow raises as she considers him. “Does this have anything to do with why you dropped off the face of the planet?”

“I suppose so, yes. It wasn’t intentional. My line of work requires that I keep a low profile.”

“You gonna let me in on it, or do I have to beg?”

He presses his lips together, weighing his options. Hannah is pro-abolition, has been since he’d met her in college. She’d been a barista at the time, working on a degree in textiles. They’d become fast friends, bonding over studying woes and distant, difficult families. A few months in, she’d confessed to him that she was struggling with her finances to the point where she was considering dropping out. 

Money he didn’t want and didn’t need burning holes in his pockets, Castiel had, on a drunken whim, pushed a sizable check under her door – which she had not cashed. After she’d slapped him and accused him of trying to make her into a sugar-baby, she became the first person in his new life to know anything about his past. 

He shakes himself. Hannah is not going to do anything to jeopardize what he does, he knows that. His reluctance is paranoia, nothing more. She takes the business card that she hands him curiously, eyebrows jumping sky high after she reads it. 

“Holy _shit,_ Novak. You’re taking that black sheep thing seriously, huh? The Morningstar fam’ know anything about this?”

“No, and I’d like it to stay that way,” he says firmly, distinctly uncomfortable. “I have no doubt that my brothers would attempt to intervene.” Aside from Gabriel, he supposes, but even that is not necessarily a sure thing, and he’s not keen to take chances when it would risk the lives of so many.

Hannah returns the card, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “Good for you, dude. Seriously. You should be proud.” She cocks her head to the side. “You guys need a tailor?”

Castiel gives her a gentle smile. “I cannot ask you to risk your business.” Hannah may not support the slave trade, but Castiel knows many of her high-end customers do. Predictably, the wealthier the demographic, the more pro-slavery people tend to be.

However, she scoffs. “Forget those idiots, man. I don’t give a flying fuck what they think.” With her trademark all-or-nothing attitude, she leans forward with blazing eyes, excited to fight for a cause again. He’s reminded of her war-painted looks at college protests, and wonders now if she had ever stopped attending them. 

Castiel hesitates. “Well, the residents are almost always in need of suitable clothes when they first arrive. We supply them with the basics, but I can hardly say that they are always a perfect match. And when they _are_ eventually freed, we do our best to provide them with a starter wardrobe, but…”

Hannah shakes her head. “Oh, hell no. You’re freeing these people, but all they start out with is off-the-rack crap? You can do better than that.” She points her thumbs at herself. “If nothing else, I could up-cycle some of that stuff. Tailor it so it fits right. What’cha think?”

He smiles at her, shaking his head. “I’ve missed you, Hannah.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I can have you on payroll in a week.”

“Offering me money again? You’re not gonna _pay_ me, asshat.”

* * *

Dean stares at himself in the mirror. 

Methodically, trying to keep his mind blank, he’d put on every shirt and pair of pants that Hannah had pulled out for him, feeling alien in the slacks and white oxford and way too _Stepford Wives_ in khakis and a sweater vest. He’s not sure he’s ever had clothes like this that fit him properly, before – he’d been a Goodwill brat as a kid. There’d been no sweaters without sleeves in his wardrobe back then. 

He takes one last look at the stupid purple get-up before pulling it off with a grimace.

In the relative safety of the fitting room, he can admit to himself that a tiny part of him had been expecting something different from this trip. It had whispered that he’d be lucky to get clothes at _all,_ even if they made it obvious what he was – either because they were cheap and ill-fitting or, more likely, not really meant to be worn out of the bedroom. But logically, he’d known better, had known that Cas would want him to dress like a normal person, had known that the alpha wouldn’t make him dress like the omega whore that he really is.

He eyes the last pile. Dean’s avoided for long enough, he figures – he’s out of excuses. The flannel and jeans he pulls on remind him a little too much of the old Dean, the headstrong omega-in-denial that he’d been before. It makes some long neglected thing inside of him ache. 

Experimentally, he holds his chin up high, tries to smirk like he used to. But the truth is still there, regardless of the wardrobe – too-sharp cheekbones, tired eyes with dark circles underneath. Two little scars through his right eyebrow; one a souvenir from Alastair’s ring, one from John’s. He doesn’t remember which is which anymore. 

The smirk drops off of his face like a dove full of buckshot. 

He stares at the heavy leather jacket on the hook, swallowing. It’s the only thing he hasn’t tried on. It looks right, _smells_ right, like home. Reminds him of the good parts of his childhood – the memory of his father’s jacket wrapping around him to protect him from the cold, its heavy weight on his shoulders. The seats of the Impala, making impressions on Sam’s cheek while he slept in the back, the soft creaking as they’d driven cross-country yet again. 

When he shrugs it on, it fits him well enough – maybe a little big. He has weight to gain. He starts to unbutton and fold up the sleeves on instinct, the memory of his father doing the same still sharp in his mind even after so long.

The red rings of tender, raw flesh on his wrists hit him like a slap. 

He stills, swallowing thickly, staring down at the hateful reminder of how different his life is now than it was when he was a kid. Suddenly, the jacket feels alien and _wrong_ on his skin. He can’t shuck it fast enough, the twin images of who he used to be and who he became _after_ clashing and shattering around his fragile understanding of who he is _now,_ some half-formed combination of the two that is nothing like either. 

He pulls Castiel’s jacket back on instead, and doesn’t look at himself in the mirror before he walks out of the room. He leaves the jacket on the floor. 

Castiel and Hannah are talking quietly when he approaches them, and it’s not until Hannah looks over and whistles that Cas pays him any attention. The alpha stares at him, his expression sort of blank. Caught off guard. He’s not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing. Maybe Cas wanted him to dress up a little more? 

He swallows, suddenly nervous under their attention, struck with the sudden feeling that he’s done something wrong. Hyper-aware of Castiel’s eyes taking in the decidedly _not_ new jacket on his shoulders, he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Everything fits,” he says awkwardly, eyes on the ground. 

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Hannah says with plain appreciation, and he looks at her in surprise. “You clean up nice, cowboy.”

Yeah, right. He knows he still looks like a fucking P.O.W. But his head still ducks automatically, eyes sliding to Castiel when the alpha clears his throat, voice a little rough. 

“You look… you do look very nice, Dean. I apologize for taking so long to get you a proper wardrobe.”

Oh. 

That’s not… That’s not what he’d been expecting. Part of him had been braced for disappointment, another for irritation that he’s still using the alpha’s clothes, but this is neither. He can feel heat spreading across his face, but he shrugs, pretends like Cas’s bumbling words of praise don’t affect him like they very much do. He really doesn’t have the energy to look too closely into that rabbit hole. “I wasn’t complainin’.”

Hannah looks between them, a slight grin on her face, but she doesn’t say anything and he’s grateful. “You wearing those out? I can just pack up the rest.”

He glances at Cas for confirmation, and when the alpha nods, he does too. 

The number that Hannah rings up is _way_ too high, more than he’d probably spent on clothes in sixteen years combined, and his stomach swoops – but Castiel doesn’t even blink as he swipes his card. Tentatively, Dean begins to gather up the bags – but Cas ain’t havin’ it. He smoothly slides his hands through the handles that Dean had been reaching for, easily carrying them all, and Dean’s left blinking stupidly as the alpha strides out the door. 

“He’s a good guy, Dean,” Hannah says from behind him. “Really. I’ve known him for a long time. You can trust him.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Yeah, I know,” he agrees, wonder still very present in his voice.

“I know.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/191827746@N07/50853895833/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely fanart by thirdleaflogic on tumblr!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning (afternoon?) my lovely humans! I hope you're all having a good weekend. 
> 
> This chapter (and the one after) is taking me much longer to be satisfied with than usual, and to be honest I'm not sure how I feel about it. I had only very roughly bullet-pointed these out previously, so it's mostly fresh writing... and that usually doesn't work well for me, lol. 
> 
> HEAVY content warnings for this chapter, folks. Dean's head is in a dark place and some nasty shit goes on here, as many of you predicted. You can skip to the end-notes for a summary and for specific tags that may be triggering. That's quite heavy, obviously, but I feel like it needed to be in order for the plot to progress, and for the next stage of Cas and Dean's relationship to happen...

Castiel has been… staring. 

Dean had followed him to the car meekly, after their little shopping trip; had sunk into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt without a word. It’s been a long day for him, Castiel knows. Dean is certainly subdued – he tucks his hands into his sleeves and leans against the window. Lets out a slow, soft sigh that fogs up the glass. 

He looks _remarkably_ different. In dark jeans and boots and a button-down shirt that actually fits him, Dean seems… healthier. Almost more human. Gone is the aura of someone in long-term patient care, gone are the somewhat childish flop of sleeves over hands, socked feet, and uneven hoodie strings. In these clothes, Dean looks like a man. 

Castiel swallows, and returns his attention to the road. Searches for something to say that will cover how much he’s been _staring._

“Thanks,” Dean says softly, saving him from having to do so. Castiel flicks his attention back to him, raising an eyebrow, and the omega taps his fingertips on his pants in explanation. His eyes are still firmly fixed on the window. “Don’t think I said it before, at the store.” 

“You don’t need to thank me.”

Dean snorts, glancing at him. “Yeah I do, Cas.” He turns back, hides his face. Adds, voice aching, “Last time someone bought clothes for me, they were made of leather.” 

The words are a blunt reminder of the kind of treatment Dean is used to. What he may very well have expected this trip to be. 

Silently, Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek, searching for the right words to say, here; the right way to express to Dean that _thanks_ is the last thing he wants for this. The last thing that Dean should have to give him. But the omega isn’t finished – he smooths his palms down his pant legs, brushing off imaginary lint. “Sorry I, uh. Sorry I kept your jacket.”

He’s glad that Dean isn’t looking at him, because he flushes red at those words. 

The omega _certainly_ doesn’t have to apologize for that. It had made his stomach flip nearly upside down in Hannah’s shop when Dean had come out of the fitting room in these clothes – well fitting, well _suited_ garments, paired with something of Castiel’s own. It had made him warm in the most confusing way possible, had made his brain sort of flat-line for a moment before he’d rebooted and shaken off whatever instinctual reaction seeing Dean in _his_ clothes, by _choice,_ had sparked. He’d crammed his debit card into his pocket without even tucking it back into his wallet so that he could flee and catch a breather outside.

“I have another,” he replies, curious, now, about Dean’s reasoning, “so you’re welcome to it.” _More_ than welcome to it – Castiel wants, inexplicably strongly, for him to _keep_ it. However, it’s starting to sink in that whatever primal reason his brain has cooked up for Dean wearing the thing is wishful thinking. Instead, it’s more likely an indication that something is wrong. Afraid of the answer, he leaves his question unasked. 

Dean answers it anyway. “I didn’t…” 

He pauses, lets road signs and cars flick past for a few silent seconds. “I looked too much like I did before,” he says softly, slowly moving the zipper up and down, tine by tine. “And I should probably want that, right? But it felt…” 

He swallows, stills his hands. Clutches at the jacket like he’s afraid Castiel will take it away. “It _hurt.”_

Throat tight, Castiel sets out his hand on the console, and after only a breath of hesitation Dean slips his palm in and grips tight. Castiel says nothing, because in this moment, nothing needs to be said. He cannot possibly hope to understand the shifts in identity that Dean has had to face, cannot hope to comprehend the way that he has had to fight and claw to hold on to some sort of semblance of self. 

Dean scoffs, a little bit of humor creeping into his tone despite the heavy topic. Predictably, it falls on the side of self-deprecating. “Can’t believe what a little shit I used to be, man.”

He wishes more than anything that he’d had the privilege to know Dean back then, before all of the trauma and abuse and hatred he’s experienced. Wishes that he’d been able to see Dean in his full glory, that he’d known him when he could be completely unafraid, completely himself. “I get the feeling you were quite the rebel.”

Dean snorts, side eyes him. “Sure, I guess. As much as any omega kid is when they don’t want to play house all the damn time.” He smiles grimly. “Don’t know what pissed my old man off more – the fact that his oldest turned out to be an omega, or that I didn’t want to fuckin’ act like one.”

The little piece of Dean’s past that he’s just offered up goes a long way to explain the way he is now, and they both know it. But he leaves it alone, well aware that he has felt vulnerable and exposed enough today. Digging into his family life is not his place, nor what Dean needs right now – and judging by the tense set of his shoulders, he’s fully expecting Castiel to try. So even though he wants to chase that lead, wants to ask after Dean’s _mother,_ wants to know who the youngest in Dean’s family is, if Dean himself is the oldest… 

He doesn’t. 

“I was thinking,” Castiel says after a moment, “about cooking burgers for dinner.”

Dean gives him a wobbly, grateful smile. His shoulders relax. “Yeah?”

“Yes. All it’ll take is a quick grocery pick-up,” he says, and when Dean’s smile falters, he adds, “I’ll just run in. Would you mind staying in the car so I can leave it running? I’d like to keep it warm.”

He knows that Dean sees right through his excuse, but the omega doesn’t call him on it. He just relaxes back into his seat, letting loose a small breath. Gives his hand a pulse. “Sure, Cas.”

* * *

Dean fiddles with the controls on the car door, flicking the lock on and off a few times before he drops his hand back in his lap with a sigh. The heater chugs away, and after a while, he has to shuck Cas’s jacket before he starts to sweat. He feels bare without it.

He hates that Cas had to leave him in the car. He feels like a friggin’ dog. The thing is, though, he knows it’s for the best. The last thing he wants to do is have a meltdown in the Wholefoods in front of God and everyone, and he’s pretty sure he would, with his nerves stretched as thin as they are. One public appearance has been more than enough for today. 

Grimacing, he thinks about what his sixteen-year-old self would have to say about the patheticness of _that._

There’d been days where Dean had spent hours upon _hours_ trying to hustle up the money he’d need to feed himself and Sam, cumulative years of his life spent out in the cold trying to scrape together enough for rent or another night in the motel while their dad was out doing who the hell knows what. 

He’d had odd jobs, of course. Under-the-table bussing, serving. Few people would hire a kid, though, and even fewer would hire an omega-male to do the job of a _real_ man. That had sort of been solved when he'd started taking scent blockers, but even then, he'd struggled. More often, he’d been snatching five-finger discounts, stealing out of tills, and pick-pocketing to get by. On bad weeks, he’d hustle darts or shark pool, taking advantage of men who underestimated him for one reason or another. 

On worse ones, he’d let those same men take advantage of _him_. The sale of a sloppy hand-job or two, over so fast that he hadn’t had to practice much, had paid the bills more than once. As had a few inexpert attempts at head in gas station bathrooms.

 _That_ had been risky, for obvious reasons. 

But when times had gotten really hard, when his dad had gotten so deep into debt or the bottle or had been gone for so long that he and Sam were going to _starve,_ Dean had always done what he’d had to. There’d been no shortage of truckers who’d been willing to shell out a twenty or two for a teenager with doe eyes and a pout – even when he was on suppressants, even when he was passing as a beta on black-market scent blockers that only worked half the time. 

While he’d had more than a few close calls, young as he’d been, _somehow_ he’d avoided anything worse than a split lip. The most he’d had to deal with were a few alphas who got carried away and tried to take more than he was willing to give. A swift knee up or a switchblade pointed at the jewels, and most had been sufficiently discouraged from taking it any further. The rest hadn’t been able to catch him when he’d booked it, shouted threats lost to the night air. 

He’s lucky John hadn’t been able to smell those alphas on him, because the beating he’d have received would probably have killed him. No son of _his_ would be caught dead doing anything like that – never mind that Dean hadn’t exactly been enjoying it. Never mind that he’d puked his guts out after his first attempt at sucking someone off, never mind that he’d gone back the next night anyway because Sam was _hungry,_ his father was _gone,_ and he’d been out of options. 

It hadn’t lasted long. Really, just one long winter. Because just a few months after Sammy had presented, the kid had sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose, had looked up at Dean with those big ol’ puppy dog eyes, and asked where he’d been. He’d quit altogether. He hadn’t wanted his little brother to have any idea what he’d been doing.

The memory of those days, of the singular, deeply ingrained drive to keep Sam well fed and clothed, to keep a roof over his head… as rough as they’d been, he misses them. And maybe that’s fucked up, to be _nostalgic_ over giving shitty hand-jobs to creepy old men, but at least he’d _chosen_ that. At least he’d been doing it for a reason, for something bigger and more important than himself. 

He does have to wonder, though, how Cas would react to the knowledge that he’d been a whore long before anyone forced him to. The thought makes him slump down in his seat, stomach twisting. 

He’s received so much kindness that he doesn’t deserve.

Hoping for anything at all to focus on besides his less than stellar childhood, he sighs and looks back out the window. The parking garage they’re in is vast, mostly empty, folks passing by every once in a while to get to the elevator that will take them down to the store. None of them pay him any mind. It’s just before noon on a week day, and Dean figures that ain’t exactly prime time for people to do their shopping. It’s just as well; anyone that strays too close to Cas’s car makes him tense up, gripping the armrest a little too firmly. 

It’s stupid – it’s not like anyone _knows_ he’s an omega, not like anyone would try and bust open the window to get him even if they did. He’s perfectly safe. But the sight of so many unfamiliar faces has him on edge. 

Like he’s caused a disturbance in the force with his emotional state, someone texts him. The little _ping_ startles him a little, but he fumbles the phone out of his pocket and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that it’s just Cas, rather than Balthazar with some fresh way to freak him out. He unlocks it. 

> _Just finishing up. The line is quite short._

Dean smiles. It’s a pretty transparent way to check on him, but he appreciates it all the same. 

> _all good here._
> 
> _can’t help but feel bad for the gas i’m wasting._

He snorts when the three little dots pop up immediately. 

> _It is more than worth it to keep us both warm._

There’s a bit of a lull, and then:

> _Do you see my debit card in the car anywhere? I’ve misplaced it._

Dean glances around, even going so far as to check inside the console and contort his body to peer under the seats. But there’s no sign of the fancy gold card he’d seen Cas flash at Hannah’s shop. 

> _i don’t see it, sorry._
> 
> _It’s fine. I’m sure it’s in one of my jacket pockets, or somewhere equally silly._

Dean frowns. He doesn’t remember, exactly, but he’s pretty sure he saw Cas put it in his back pocket, along with his wallet. He’s confident that the alpha would have checked there, so he doesn’t say as much – but he does peer through the window, wondering if it’s on the ground somewhere around the car. He doesn’t see it, even when he leans over to check through the driver’s side, so he falls back into his seat, dropping his temple against the cool glass with a thump and a sigh. 

Only to spy the damn thing a dozen yards away near the elevator, half under the back bumper of an Escalade. 

Shit. 

> _found it._
> 
> _Oh, good. Where was it?_

Dean starts to reply. Then he hesitates. Slowly, he backspaces until the message is deleted completely. 

He’s pretty sure he knows what Cas is gonna say – namely, to stay put. To not worry about it. He’s gonna insist that he can handle it, that it’s not worth Dean freaking himself out over; not in so many words, of course, but that’s what he’ll mean. Dean knows that Cas left him in the car on purpose, knows that the alpha is never going to push him to do something he’s uncomfortable doing. 

So that means, of course, that he has to push himself. 

It’s such a simple thing. A quick jaunt across the aisle, and a quick jaunt back. It’s stupid that the very _idea_ makes his heart pound, makes his palms start to sweat. He’s faced down so much worse than this, has fought and kicked and spat in the fucking faces of people who held his life in their hands. But he’s been nothing but a yellow-bellied coward all damn day. 

His phone pings in his lap, the first message followed by the second after a small lull. 

> _Dean?_
> 
> _Is it on the ground?_

The longer he waits, the higher the risk that some jokester picks it up; even as he sits here, a man passes so close by it on the way to his car that he nearly kicks it. He looks up, catches Dean staring, and holds his gaze for a moment. Dean drops his eyes. He’s wary of drawing attention to himself. 

When he glances up again, the man is gone. His phone vibrates and pings insistently. 

> _Dean, please answer me._
> 
> _I’ll pick it up on my way out, alright? I paid in cash._
> 
> _Please, stay in the car._

He locks his phone and the screen goes dark. Puts his hand on the door handle, something violent twisting in his gut when he thinks about opening it. It’s ridiculous that he’s afraid, right now – _nothing_ is going to happen. There are cameras in this parking garage, he’s sure, and people all over the place, it’s the middle of the day… no one is going to touch him. He probably still smells too much like Cas for other alphas to be interested, anyway. 

He tells himself these things in a stern, sneering voice that sounds a lot like his dad’s, quickly presses the push-button start to cut the engine so that he’ll _have_ to get out. But still, he can’t make himself unlock the door, can’t make himself step into the world all alone, without an alpha in front of him. His stomach churns. 

His phone starts ringing, and suddenly he’s standing outside with no memory of opening the door. The ringtone is muffled behind the window a moment later.

He’s frozen, for a moment. The air is brisk on his face after the warmth of the car, and a shiver wracks through him – he forgot Cas’s jacket, but if he turns back now, he’s going to wimp out completely. 

The garage is _loud._ He can hear the engines of countless cars driving up and down the floors, the echo of voices below and above ricocheting off the concrete pillars and barriers, the buzzing of harsh white fluorescent lights. He presses against the cold metal of the door, and can feel his heart pounding in his palms. 

The card seems very, very far away. Miles. 

He takes a jerky step toward it, stops in his tracks when he thinks he hears a noise – but there’s no one. Ducking his head down low, eyes flicking back and forth along the aisle, Dean takes another tentative step forward, then another, until he’s out of the cover of the row. 

All of a sudden, he’s forgotten that his fear is pointless and is instead doing all he can to work around it, clenching his hands into fists at his side. With one last nervous look back to safety, he ducks his head low and barrels forward, getting as close as he can to running without making an absolute fool of himself. 

It feels like it takes a very long time to reach it, but he’s there before his cowardice can suffocate him. He crouches quickly. Blind, from this angle, he has to lean awkwardly to the side and paw at the cold concrete until he can feel the edge of the card under his fingertips. Fumbling, hyper-aware of his shaking hands, he nudges the thing until he can slap his palm over it. 

Despite the fear twisting in his gut, he feels a burst of victory as he drags it toward himself, even when he has to grip the wheel in front of him to keep his balance. He half laughs as he crams it in his pocket and turns to dash back to the car.

The hair on his neck snaps to attention. 

There’s an unfamiliar pair of shoes in front of him. 

Dean stumbles back so quickly that he slips and lands on his ass. A man, tall and lean, is looming above him – it's the same one who looked at him earlier, the one who nearly kicked Cas’s card. 

He’s an alpha. 

His scent hits like a metal bat against a windshield. It takes everything in Dean not to gag – it’s metallic, sharp as battery acid, and instantly he knows that this alpha is not here to offer him a friendly hand up or an innocuous greeting. He’s here to _take._

“Little omega, you’re lookin’ pretty lonely,” he croons, a crooked smile on his face. Dean swallows, frozen, staring up at the man with his heart pounding hard in his chest. “Where’s your alpha?”

Dean can’t talk. He tries, he _tries._ But when he opens his mouth, the only sound that escapes is a tiny breath of air. He knows the scent, knows the stance. Knows exactly what he’s after. 

The alpha takes a step closer. “All alone, then?” He sniffs the air, glancing around the garage to check, ostensibly, for witnesses. Dean scoots back on reflex, but in the wrong direction – he ends up with his back to the car, nowhere to run. He makes the mistake of looking the alpha in the eye and instantly regrets it; his insides drop twenty degrees when he sees the man’s large pupils, his hungry gaze. 

“You don’t smell mated. Lucky for both of us, ain’t it?” 

He reaches down, picks Dean up from the floor by his arm. He stumbles, cramming into the ice cold metal behind him as the alpha moves closer, and closer still, knee hot where it presses between his legs, his grip still firm on his arm. 

“My,” Dean tries, but his voice is weak. Shaking. “M-my alpha, he’s…” 

“You ain’t got an alpha, little omega,” the man says, almost _gentle._ “‘Least, not a real one. And that’s a real shame. I bet you’re hunting for someone to help you out, though, right?” He leans in closer, his sour breath hot on Dean’s face as he strains and turns away. “Someone with a nice big knot for that tight little hole?”

Paralysis abruptly gives way to flight. Dean tries to dart to the side, but the alpha is too fast – he snatches Dean back, snags a hand around the scarf that Cas so gently wrapped around him this morning. He yanks, and Dean _chokes_ when he collides with the alpha’s chest, nausea twisting inside when the alpha inhales against his throat, revulsion crawling on his skin like spiders _._

“You smell _good,_ bitch,” the alpha murmurs. “Can’t believe how lucky I am. Got you all to myself.”

He almost, _almost_ tells the alpha his master won’t like that. That he is _already_ owned, and he can’t be touched by someone else without his owner’s permission – it’s against the law. 

But so is being a slave with no collar. Either the alpha won’t believe him, or he _will,_ and he’ll get Cas in trouble for breaking the rules. Get Dean in trouble, too. And a thought that hadn’t occurred to him before now snakes its way into his brain: Dean could be taken away from Cas, for that. Back for retraining. 

In comparison to _that,_ this is nothing. Dean's a whore, anyway. This is nothing new to him - he's been doing _this_ shit since was fifteen years old. He should be used to it.

So he says nothing, and the opportunity is gone – the alpha yanks him down by the scarf so that his knees hit the concrete, and then he _steps_ on the fabric, till Dean is half bent forward. He’s so fucking terrified that he cries out, _loud,_ and he’s not supposed to do that, not supposed to protest, Alastair will punish him for that – 

The alpha has a hand on his belt, a hand on the button of his pants, and Dean can’t do _anything;_ he just kneels, exactly like he’s been trained, fingers splayed out on the dirty ground to hold him up. But when the alpha leans forward, when he grabs the back of Dean’s hair to angle him toward his bulging pants, Dean’s desperation outweighs his trained obedience. He starts begging.

“No. _No,”_ he chokes, still pitifully quiet, only a token resistance because he’s a _coward,_ and he’d rather this happen than risk being taken away from the only sort of safety he’s ever known. He wraps his hands around the scarf, tries to pull away, but his voice is still no louder than a whisper. “ _Please.”_

The alpha just scoffs, gives him a rough shake, like Dean’s begging is _annoying_ him, and Dean closes his eyes as the terrible and familiar sound of a clinking belt buckle and a zipper pulled down surrounds him – 

And then the alpha is nowhere. 

A blur of movement and a sickening _thud_ are all Dean can comprehend before he’s scrabbling backwards as fast as he can, cramming himself against the barrier wall between the garage and the fifty foot plunge below. 

Cas is here. Cas is _here._

There’s _fury_ in his alpha’s eyes as he pins the man to the car, two hands curled into his lapels. His nose is an inch away from the other alpha’s, and he _snarls,_ and if Dean were any closer he’d probably have wet himself at the sound. As it is, he can’t move. Can’t even think about moving, crouched down on the cold, smooth concrete, hands still tangled into his scarf. 

“How _dare you,”_ his alpha is hissing, teeth flashing and pointed in the harsh light. In this moment, the gentle, patient man that Dean has come to know is nowhere to be found – he’s been replaced with something feral, something _primal._ Something that _hunts._

“I didn’t know!” The other alpha is already squealing, squirming to try and get away from Castiel’s ironclad grip. “I didn’t know he was yours, okay? He ain’t mated, how was I supposed to know?”

Castiel lifts him forward, _slams_ him back. _Hard._ The man’s teeth rattle in his skull, and he gasps, fighting for breath as the air gets knocked out of him. 

“He said _no,”_ Cas snarls, his voice low and terrifying. “I heard him. _You_ heard him.”

The other alpha raises his hands to waist height, nervously laughs, his tone jittery but placating as if he thinks he’s going to be able to talk Cas down from this. “Yeah, but, come on man. They always _say_ that, but we both know what they really wa–” 

The alpha makes a strangled sort of noise when Cas lifts him off his feet. Whatever he’d been about to say is crushed beneath a wave of Castiel’s rage, so harsh and fiery that even Dean flinches away. The alpha’s voice is suddenly very high. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Shut,” Cas growls, “up.” 

He does.

The garage is silent, now, as if everyone else here instinctively knows what’s going down. A fight like this isn’t gonna get interrupted by anyone short of the cops – a pair of alphas coming to blows over an omega isn’t something anyone wants to get between.

“Dean,” Castiel says slowly, his eyes still locked on the alpha’s. As he stares, the man drops his gaze, slowly turns his chin to the side. Swallows. He’s _afraid._ “Go and get in the car. Now.”

Dean goes. Goes as fast as he possibly can, sliding past the pair of frozen alphas with his breath held, nearly tripping over himself as he flees. He almost can’t get the door open, his hands are shaking so hard, but he does, and he’s inside, and the door doesn’t close fast enough for him to miss the sick thud of flesh on flesh, the groan of the blonde alpha as he hits the concrete. 

Silence.

* * *

The trunk opens with a hiss of hydraulics. Paper bags, rustling in the quiet, are set inside. The trunk closes. The driver-side door opens. Closes again.

Dean can’t make himself look. 

Cas smells so _angry._

“Are you hurt.”

Cas’s voice is like iron. It doesn’t sound like a question. Dean shakes his head, eyes down on the floorboards. Hands still gripping his scarf for dear life. It’s pulled too tight around his neck, a choke collar and leash. He doesn’t loosen it. 

Cas doesn’t say anything at all in response. He just silently puts the car in reverse, pulls out of the spot. Drives past the alpha that’s gingerly picking himself up off the floor, his nose gushing blood, pants still undone – Dean snaps his eyes away from the sight with a sick jolt. 

It’s like he’s holding his breath. They pull out of the garage, turn onto the main road. 

The silence is so heavy that it’s _loud._

“Why,” Cas asks, a slow, measured breath between words that feel like blows, “did you get out of the car, Dean?”

Dean opens his mouth. Tries to find the words to explain himself, but they won’t come. He disobeyed. He disobeyed an order, and Cas is angry, as he should be, because Dean nearly got himself used by someone else just now. Nearly disrespected his alpha in the worst way possible. 

Castiel tolerates his silence for longer than he should, but when he speaks again, his voice is a degree sharper. A degree harsher. “What made you think that was a good idea?”

“I–” Dean starts, falters. Swallows. “Your. Your card. It was on the, um. On the g-ground–” 

“I would _never,”_ Cas interrupts, voice like broken glass, “have asked you to risk yourself over something so frivolous. Never.” 

Dean’s throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but it isn’t good enough, because Cas is talking right over him. 

“You put yourself in _danger,”_ he’s growling, hands gripping the wheel so hard they’re shaking. “You could have been assaulted, or _abducted,_ with no one to protect you, and you thought it’d be a good idea to get out of the car anyway–”

“I didn’t think– ” 

“No, you _didn’t_ think,” Castiel snaps, slapping his hand on the wheel. “If that man had hurt you –” 

“He didn’t!”

“But he _could have!”_ the alpha roars, the windows shaking with the force of his rage. _“Dammit,_ Dean! I don’t understand! Did you _want_ to be hurt?”

All of a sudden, Dean can breathe again. The problem is that he’s doing so _way_ too fast, sucking all the oxygen out of the car, and he can’t see because suddenly the sun is gone and the lights are gone and everything is turning black, and he’s going to be _sick–_

“Cas,” he whispers, and he must sound desperate enough that the alpha understands immediately – he swerves to the side of the road and Dean barely gets the door open before he’s on his knees, dirt and dead grass and snow crunching under him as he heaves. 

A hand touches his shoulder after a beat or two, but he flinches forward, unable to be touched by anyone or anything, not right now. Not with that alpha’s stench and sweat all over him. Not when he’s choking on Castiel’s anger, on his own shame. On the scarf that's still cinched like a noose around his neck. 

Cas doesn’t try again. 

When Dean’s done puking his guts out and tries to stagger back to his feet, he stumbles. Nearly falls back into the dirt. But he makes it to the curb, sinks down until he’s crouched on the side of the road, one hand in front of him, planted against Cas’s car. He’s dizzy. Breathless. 

Cas settles in next to him, after a moment. Far enough away that Dean knows he isn’t going to try and reach out again – he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or heartbroken. He closes his eyes. Feels guilt rising in his stomach, like bile. He’s shaking. Hands grabbing his own hair.

Panic, he knows. He’s familiar with it. Has felt it hundreds of times. But this time, there’s nothing to run from – nowhere _to_ run. So it doesn’t make sense that he’s terrified, right now, doesn’t make sense that his rib cage is about to shatter apart, that his heart is going to lurch right out of his open chest. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he’s babbling. He’s probably been doing so for a while, the words hardly coherent, as he begs. He’s just so damn terrified that Cas thinks he _wanted_ that, that he asked for it. That he let the alpha take what doesn’t belong to him _or_ Dean. He’s horrified that he almost _did._

His hands are around his head, around his neck, protecting him from nothing and no one. “I swear, I _swear,_ I didn’t, d-didn’t let him, I _didn’t –”_

“I know, Dean,” Cas soothes. Gone is the rage from moments ago; the alpha sounds like he’s choking on nails. “I know. _He_ tried to hurt you.” He takes a breath. “He nearly _did.”_

“But I –” he stutters, tripping and falling over his words, “I didn’t _want_ him to touch me, I didn’t want that. I _didn’t_ _want that!”_ he shouts into his own lap, eyes screwed shut, desperate that Cas understands he knows his place, that he doesn’t think Dean is some desperate whore who actually _desires_ to be hurt, all evidence to the contrary. 

“That’s not what I meant, Dean. Not at all. I know you would never ask for something like that.” His voice is low, painful to listen to. “It was an awful thing to say. I’m so sorry. I do _not_ blame you.”

Dean curls in as far as he can, knees nearly touching his chest. He can’t even wrap his brain around that, has no idea why Cas is apologizing to him right now. Because _Dean_ is the one who fucked up; Dean is the one that nearly ruined everything. But the alpha’s rage is gone. No anger left in him. 

Unable to understand why, he starts tearing up. He shouldn’t – he’s safe, and Cas is telling him that this wasn’t his fault, and everything is okay now. But he’s blinking back tears, choking on something sharp in his throat. 

Anyone in their right minds _would_ blame him. He disobeyed. He flaunted himself, he didn’t take any precautions. Didn’t even try. And he didn’t even fight, when push came to shove – he was just gonna let that alpha take whatever he wanted, like he doesn’t know he’s already owned. 

Guilt burns him up from the inside, and he’s talking before he can think to stop. “I – I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t – I don’t have a _collar,_ but he didn’t believe me when I said my alpha wouldn’t like it – wouldn’t want him to–” 

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath, and Dean hastens to reassure him that he didn’t give him away. “But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t…”

He nearly can’t get the words out. “I didn’t say _anything.”_

Suddenly, he’s unsure how, exactly, that’s supposed to make either of them feel better. It’s true that he didn’t rat Cas out, but for some reason, he isn’t exactly proud of himself for it. Instead, he feels like even more of a coward than he did before. Feels like he’s _choking_ on cowardice. 

He grips his hair. Listens to the sounds of traffic, passing them by. “I’m sorry.”

“This situation,” Cas says, his voice oddly strangled, “is my fault entirely, Dean. Not yours.” 

“But–”

“No.” He says it with finality, and Dean shuts up. “No. I knew you needed tags, but I foolishly decided that they would be unnecessary. I have forgotten, despite what my job entails, how unsafe and unkind the world is for someone in your position.” 

Dean takes a breath. And another. He didn’t want a collar, either, but he _did_ know what the consequences could be. But even now, he’s still not sure that he’s gonna be able to handle that leather around his throat again, even if it’s only there to keep him safe. He feels his heart speed up at just the _thought._

“Are you gonna…”

When Cas doesn’t answer right away, Dean finally looks up. 

The alpha looks… defeated. Small, hunched against the wind on the curb, just like Dean is. So different than he had just minutes ago, so vulnerable in comparison to the towering, wrathful figure he’d been against that alpha. And the sight of those familiar, gentle eyes makes something inside Dean twist until it threatens to break. 

Cas slowly offers his hand. Dean takes it.

 _“Just_ tags, Dean. Metal, embossed tags, on a chain. Completely removable, when they aren’t needed. You can take them off whenever you want.”

He’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that that sort of thing was an option. Only, he’d also known it was just for privileged slaves. Well behaved slaves. Not an option for someone like _him._

Dean sags. Relieved. _Exhausted._ Whatever fight or flight was left in him whooshes away, fleeing from the warm touch of the alpha next to him. 

“Oh,” he says weakly. 

It’s not nearly enough. But it’s all he can say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More specific trigger warnings: 
> 
> First - Dean reflects on teenage attempts at prostituting himself to make ends meet (hand-jobs and oral sex). You can skip from "On worse ones, he’d let those same men take advantage of him." to "He’s received so much kindness that he doesn’t deserve." to leave out the details of that. It's nothing graphic, but it's obviously awful regardless. 
> 
> Second - Attempted sexual assault. Nothing sexual actually takes place, but the intent is there, and it comes very close. I'd honestly skip everything from "The alpha takes a step closer" to "And then the alpha is nowhere" if you think you may be triggered by something.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! 
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay! This chapter was a beast and a half, and I'm feeling under the weather besides. I'm not kidding - I wrote, re-wrote, and then re-RE-wrote this thing. All of the drafts went in totally different directions. But I'm finally semi-satisfied with it.... you may or may not agree, lol. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this section deal more with Dean's self-hatred and self-worth issues, rather than anything graphic. Last chapter was rough enough to last us all a while, I think. 
> 
> Thank you, as usual, to those of you who take the time to comment on my little fic. It brings me so much happiness to read your thoughts and opinions (and it's also super helpful when y'all point out possible plot holes, lol.) Anyway, enjoy a slightly longer chapter as a reward for your patience!

Castiel holds his hand for a while longer, till the gray slush underneath them starts to seep into both of their clothes, and Dean begins to shiver from the cold rather than fear. He slowly stands, pulling Dean to his feet with a palm wrapped gently around his elbow. The omega follows willingly. Silent. Limp.

He bundles him into the car, lays Dean’s jacket over his lap. Shucks and adds his own for good measure. Buckles him in, when Dean makes no move to do it himself. Loosens the scarf that has been pulled far too tight around Dean’s neck, the ends damp and dirty from trailing in the mud and snow. Dean swallows when Castiel unwinds it and pulls it away, mouth pressed into a thin, trembling line. Closes his eyes. 

He curls into himself when Castiel drops into the driver’s seat, hugging his own body and leaning against the door. Away from him. But still, underneath layers of emotional turmoil, underneath his fear and the lingering scent of that monstrous alpha… Dean smells _grateful._

Castiel doesn’t want gratitude. After what he’s done, it makes his stomach churn to be thanked, even if Dean isn’t doing so verbally, or even intentionally. Castiel doesn’t deserve it.

Halfway home, Dean slides a shaking hand into his pocket and gently sets his debit card on the console. It feels like a shot to the gut. 

He doesn’t deserve Dean at all.

When they arrive home, Dean stumbles into the house. Exhausted. He departs without a word upstairs, probably for a shower. Castiel has no doubt that he’s desperate to stop smelling like that other alpha. It has _him_ on edge – no telling how bad it’s making Dean feel.

He’s probably keen for some distance between himself and Castiel, too. 

He sets the groceries on the counter. Puts them away with a slow, tired precision. Somehow, he doesn’t think Dean will be in the mood for burgers tonight. But it’s barely past noon, and he doesn’t want the omega to go hungry, so he puts together some sandwiches and cuts up some fruit, and he sets it in the fridge to wait. 

He waits for a long time, listening to the shower run all the while. 

To say that he feels awful is an understatement. He figures that he may as well confess his sins now, and get it over with. 

Balthazar, for some reason, doesn’t yell at him when he walks out the whole sordid story, even when he tells him the last bit in painstaking detail. He’s frighteningly quiet instead. Castiel almost wishes he _would_ shout, wishes that someone would punish him for what he’s done to Dean, today – from endangering him to terrorizing him, Castiel has been nothing but a nightmare for the omega under his care. 

“I can start Alfie on the tags in a few hours,” Bal finally says, his tone flat. “Of course, that’s assuming –” 

“Why,” Castiel interrupts, “are you not absolutely furious with me?”

Bal is quiet for a long time. When he does speak, his words are razor thin. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been more angry, to be frank. But there’s no point in adding on to your bloody guilt complex.”

Castiel stands in the kitchen with his hand clenching and unclenching into a fist at his side. The empty paper bags on the counter hurt to look at. The distant fury in his friend’s voice hurts to hear. He deserves the pain, he knows. “I very nearly got him assaulted.”

“Oh, but you didn’t. You _protected_ him,” Balthazar corrects, voice sharp as a wasp sting and about as comforting. _“You_ didn’t choose to have someone try and do that to him. It’s an unfortunate reality for omegas who are unmated – but _you_ know that, yes? Couldn’t possibly have forgotten, _right?”_

Castiel tries to get a word in edgewise, but Balthazar steamrolls right over him. He sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. “And, sure, you could have been smarter about taking him out of the house in the first place. Could have been sure he’d have a way to defend himself from unwanted _advances._ But there’s no use crying over it now – spilt milk, water under the bridge and all that. Never mind what could have happened.”

“Balthazar–”

“Castiel,” Balthazar snaps. “You did what you were supposed to do. You kept him safe. Pop a goddamn cracker, for chrissake.” 

And though his voice is twisted with anger and sarcasm, he doesn’t add anything more, doesn’t try to make Castiel answer for what he’d said and done after. But Castiel _wants_ to, cannot stand the weight of it, unaddressed and heavy in his stomach.

“But _I_ scared him,” he chokes, guilt clawing its way through his chest for the hundredth time when he thinks about Dean’s pale, shaking hands, when he sees in his mind’s eye the way that the omega flinched away from his touch when he needed it the most. “He… I should have comforted him, and I _yelled_ at him instead. Made him feel like I blamed him for what happened.”

“Do you?” Balthazar demands frostily.

“Of course I don’t,” he says miserably, unable to dredge up even righteous anger at the idea. “Of _course_ not. I know he would never ask for anything like that. I was just… I cannot begin to explain to you,” he tries, “the _fear_ I felt in that moment. And it… it became _rage,_ because it had nowhere to go. I didn’t know what to do with it.” Balthazar says nothing. He takes a breath. “Even after that alpha had been… taken care of, even after Dean was safe, I wanted to tear that man limb from limb.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” Balthazar says cooly, “because if you had, and he’d pressed charges, Dean’s lack of tags could have gotten him taken away.”

The reminder makes him dizzy. He finds, suddenly, that he cannot stand – he sinks down to the kitchen floor, his back to the cabinets. “I didn’t think anything like this would happen. I thought he’d be safe with me.”

“Oh, please,” Balthazar says snidely, his anger really starting to seep through. “You thought you’d be able to watch him at every moment? You thought you’d be enough? Did you _forget_ about hundreds of years of omegas being stepped on and abused and treated like _property?”_

His throat feels like it’s the size of a straw. 

“Yes,” he croaks. “I suppose I did.”

“Then you’re even thicker than I thought,” Balthazar spits. “With what you do every day, you’d think you’d have a better understanding of what the world is like for us. But I suppose that even you, as _woke_ as you are, are subject to that lovely alpha bias and privilege.” 

Castiel closes his eyes. He feels like he’s going to be sick. His _pride_ is what landed them where they are – his surety that he and Dean were not subject to the laws, both unspoken and written, of society. His lack of foresight when it came to Dean’s desire to prove himself, another blind underestimation of the bravest person he has ever known. His impatience and desire to push Dean back into the normal world, even though Dean was not _ready._

It had nearly cost them everything. And then he’d blamed what had happened on Dean not a minute later. Had snatched away the only comfort that Dean has been able to depend on in _years._

“He can’t stay here,” he chokes, voice cracking. “Bal, I… I can’t.”

“You don’t get to _throw him away!”_ Balthazar shouts, vehement and _furious,_ all pretense of cool indifference evaporated in an instant. “You bloody _coward._ You committed to this, and you promised him a place with you. You don’t get to dump him on someone else’s doorstep when you find it’s too hard!”

“I keep hurting him,” he whispers, ashamed. Cowed. “I don’t want him to hurt anymore.”

“Pain is part of life,” Balthazar snaps. “An omega’s life especially. So if _you_ don’t want to hurt him, then be better. Try harder. Bloody _communicate,”_ he stresses, smacking his fist down on what sounds like his keyboard. “And _apologize.”_

“I did,” he says quietly. “I did apologize. And I’ll do so as many times as needed. But I...” He curls an arm around his own chest, pressing in. Holding himself together. “I don’t know if he believes me.”

“So fix that,” Balthazar growls.

“How?” Castiel asks, miserable. “I can say so a million times, but…” 

“Saying is one thing,” Bal says. “Proving is quite another.”

He takes a deep breath. Steadies his hand on the floor, listens to the quiet, ever present noises of his home. Listens to the sounds of Dean, upstairs in the shower, all alone. Castiel can still smell his fear, and his shame.

“What if he doesn’t want to listen to me?”

Balthazar snorts. “Well, _I_ wouldn’t bloody want to. Lucky for you, he probably thinks he doesn’t have a choice. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble cornering him.”

Nausea rolls in him. He cannot make himself open his mouth. 

There’s a long silence. He can hear his friend take a deep breath in, and blow a deep breath out. When he speaks, his fury has petered out. “That was cruel. And unfair.”

“No,” Cas can barely say. “No, you’re right.”

“I’m not,” Bal gripes, like he's annoyed that he isn't. “I’m angry, and I’m saying things I don’t mean.” By the end of his sentence, his voice has lost its hard edge. “As we are all prone to do.”

Throat aching, Castiel swallows. He blinks back what threatens to be tears. “This is different.”

“You’re right, it is. I dug in where I was _sure_ it would hurt, where I know you’ve got a million and one issues. I’m mostly in control,” Bal says sardonically. _“You_ were ready to take down a lorry, as hyped up on alpha pheromones as you must have been.”

“I can’t use that as an excuse,” Castiel argues, guilt twisting in him at the very thought. “I’ll never use that as an excuse.”

“It’s a bloody good one, though,” his friend replies gruffly. “Doesn’t make it right. But it’s… understandable.” He sighs. “Just talk to the kid.”

Blinking rapidly, Castiel tries to back away from what is beginning to feel like Balthazar’s roundabout, gruff forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it. “He needs space.”

“I don’t know what he needs, Cassie, and neither do you,” Bal corrects, his voice far more tired than angry now. “The only way you’ll know is if you ask him, and if he answers.”

He closes his eyes. Rests his head on his knees – it’s pounding, predictably. Now that the last of his adrenaline is gone, he’s finding that he’s quite tired. 

“I _am_ sorry,” he says softly, after a long while. 

Balthazar makes a huffy noise. “I know you are, you bastard. Makes it difficult to remain cross with you.”

“You should still be furious.”

“Enough with the masochism,” his friend sighs. “It does no good.”

Castiel snorts, very softly. “Easy for you to say.”

“No, it isn’t,” Bal replies blandly, nothing in his voice to indicate the weight of that statement – but they feel it all the same. 

The first few years of the omega’s newfound freedom had not been spent pleasantly, he knows. Balthazar has told him enough, has used his own life and misfortune as a cautionary tale for them all to learn from – to teach Castiel, in particular, the importance of creating support systems rather than freeing slaves and being done with it, as he’d wanted to do at first. Had taught him about what can happen to a slave that is abandoned with nothing but a bare neck and a flimsy sheet of paper proving that they’re free.

He knows that Balthazar is afraid that’s exactly what would happen to Dean. Castiel isn’t sure it wouldn’t. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Castiel says, stomach rolling at the thought. 

“I know you will,” Balthazar replies. 

He thanks his friend for handing his ass to him, and hangs up. 

* * *

When the water finally shuts off, Castiel’s first instinct is to charge up the stairs and fix the sorrow and the shame he can still smell in the air. But he doesn’t – he takes his time. Takes a shower, changes his clothes, keen to wash away any trace of the other alpha’s lust and his own anger. Stalls, till he can’t wait a moment longer. 

He carries the two plates upstairs, careful to make quite a bit of noise as he goes so that Dean knows he’s coming. The omega should have every opportunity to send him away.

Surprisingly, the door to his bedroom isn’t closed when he turns the corner. He hesitates at the end of the hall for a moment, suddenly unsure of himself. Suddenly positive that he should not be bothering Dean at all. So he turns around to leave. 

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice is quiet. Tired. He sounds exhausted, and small, and entirely too far away. 

He steps in the doorway timidly, still unsure that Dean actually wants him up here. But then the omega looks up at him from the floor in front of his bed, his hands wrapped around his knees. There’s a blanket around his shoulders. He’s obviously been crying, eyes and nose puffy and red, and sympathy swells inside of him. 

Castiel probably couldn’t leave now even if he wanted to. Not with Dean so clearly distressed.

The omega doesn’t move when he steps closer – doesn’t flinch, but doesn’t reach out to him, either. He just stays right in place, miserable and hunched in on himself, any hint of confidence he’d woken up with this morning crushed under the weight of the events of the day. Carefully, Castiel sets the plates down on the dresser and sits against the bed with him, an intentional few feet of space between. 

For a long while, neither of them say a word. Castiel can’t think of what _to_ say, of what will fix what he has broken between them. Dean doesn’t seem inclined to help him, either – he just closes his eyes and breathes, quiet and miserable. 

“I spoke to Balthazar,” he says eventually. Dean doesn’t look up. “He let me know what a tremendous ass I’ve been.”

He says the words with the intention of catching Dean’s attention – perhaps, even, with the intention of at least slightly lightening the mood – but it doesn’t seem to work on either account. Dean doesn’t really react to his words, just closes his eyes a little tighter. 

“I didn’t mean what I said, in the garage,” he tries, guilt already making it difficult to speak. “I was…” _Scared._ “Angry.”

Dean does react to that – he flinches a bit, misery clouding the room. “I know,” he whispers. 

“Not at you,” he says gently, though it doesn’t seem to ease the tension around Dean’s shoulders. “At that alpha. At the situation.”

“Okay.”

The word is quiet. Defeated. There’s no hope attached to it. No relief. It’s so _frustrating –_ Castiel can only say what he means, what he feels. And if Dean doesn’t understand, or doesn’t believe him, he’s left in the same place he was before. His lack of even the most basic communication skills are hindering him once again, are _hurting_ other people once again. He just doesn’t know what to say or do to fix his blunder. 

Doesn’t know if he even _can_ fix his blunder. 

“I’m sorry.”

Dean blinks up at him, some faint flicker of confusion on his face peeking through his exhaustion. “For what?”

Castiel wonders if Dean even _heard_ him the first time he’d apologized. Probably not. He’d probably been too scared and overwhelmed to understand much of anything. “For yelling.” For accusing him of the one thing Dean probably feared the most. “For the way I behaved.”

The omega looks up, focuses his gaze on the opposite wall. There’s a weak sort of acceptance in his eyes, a familiar resignation that makes Castiel’s heart tighten. “You don’t need to apologize for that.”

He sounds like he means it. Sounds like he doesn’t understand why Castiel would bother at all. “I shouldn’t have taken out my frustration on you.”

The side of Dean’s mouth twitches up, some faint trace of a self deprecating smirk. “It’s alright, Cas. I’m kinda used to it.”

And God, if that doesn’t make him feel infinitely worse. Makes him feel _cruel._ And though he knows it isn’t Dean’s intention to guilt him – knows it's likely the _opposite,_ knows that Dean probably thinks those words will be some kind of relief or retroactive permission to abuse him – he cannot stomach the knowledge that he has acted in _any_ capacity like the type of alpha that Dean is familiar with. 

He’s so angry at himself for fulfilling Dean’s expectations. 

Some of that anger must translate to his scent, because Dean leans away from him, a faint whiff of nervousness twisting through the room. The trace of his smile evaporates.

Castiel takes a deep breath. Pushes those thoughts away. He will _not_ scare Dean again. 

“Balthazar and I also discussed the topic of your identification,” he says, somewhat robotically. He may as well move on, may as well tackle the other elephant in the room while he’s here. While Dean is already upset. 

The omega had been so terrified of the collar, and so terrified of the prospect of wearing it again, that Castiel cannot see how this will go well. Even though tags aren’t nearly as demeaning, they are still a mark of ownership – something, he feels, neither of them need to be reminded of. But, as he’s seen today, they have little choice. 

Dean, again, doesn’t really react. He just sighs, pinching and releasing the fabric of his pants in small, slow movements. “A collar would be better.”

The words are flat. Resigned. There’s very little emotion in his tone. But it doesn’t fool Castiel for a second. “A collar would be cruel.”

Dean shrugs. “That doesn’t really matter, Cas.”

“Yes, it does,” he all but snaps. “It _does_ matter.”

Dean winces, his mouth thinning. Still, he says nothing in his own defense. “I don’t understand why you are so determined,” Castiel says lowly, “to do things you don’t want to do.”

The omega tightens his grip around himself. “I’d rather…” he swallows. “I’d rather wear a collar like an _owned_ bitch than chance some random alpha thinking I’m a free one,” he says, and though the words are stomach-turningingly harsh, his tone is not. It’s almost _timid._ “At least if I’ve got that, people won’t… other alphas will know that I’m already...” 

He trails off, seeming to become smaller as he goes. 

Castiel doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want to acknowledge that he’s got some sort of sick _claim_ over Dean. Doesn’t want to acknowledge that the only reason some alphas would leave Dean alone has everything to do with _Castiel’s_ preferences, and nothing to do with Dean himself. But that cowardice and refusal to face the reality of Dean’s situation is what got them into trouble today in the first place. 

Dean must misunderstand his silence for refusal, because he shrinks into himself even further. “I get it if… if you don’t really want to claim me anymore. I know I haven't exactly earned it. But you _said_ you wanted me,” he whispers, hugging himself harder. “You said so. And I can… I can be better." His voice cracks. "Please, Cas.”

Castiel blinks harshly. Looks up at the ceiling, eyes burning. He knows how much Dean _hates_ the collar, knows how much having one on terrified him. Remembers the staggering _relief_ when he'd taken it off. And even still, he’s _begging_ for one. All for the chance to feel a little safer. 

He has done such a _miserable_ job. 

“The tags I told you about earlier are being made for you right now,” he finally says, his voice rough. “I would appreciate it if… if we tried those first. It’s what all the residents at the center wear, and it’s worked well for them.” Dean swallows, so he pushes a little more. Softens a little more. “But if you still don’t feel safe, we’ll discuss a collar. If that’s what you truly want.”

Dean’s shoulders slump, relief pulsing in his scent. “Thank you,” he whispers. “That’s… I know you didn’t want…”

“It doesn’t really matter what I want, Dean,” he reminds the omega softly. “This is about what will make you most comfortable.”

The words seem to bring him little comfort – in fact, he looks a little nauseous. Perhaps it is because this has never been about Dean’s _comfort –_ it’s been about his _survival._ Two impossible choices; one demeaning and violating and horrifying, and the other better only by degrees.

“When?” he asks. He has not looked at Castiel even once. The realization feels like a knife wound. 

“I’ll, um,” he says, clearing his throat. Trying not to make it obvious that he’s about to _cry._ “I’ll head out to grab them soon. It never takes them long to be made. So if you want to be… if you’ll be okay alone…?”

And while his nod isn’t quite fervent, it’s close. Close enough that Castiel knows distance is what Dean really wants right now, and what he deserves after what Castiel’s put him through. 

“Okay,” he says softly. He stifles the automatic urge to reach out and grab Dean’s hand, stands up and brushes off his pants instead. He sets Dean’s plate of food closer to him, decides not to tell him to eat. He will, if he’s hungry. He’s dealt enough with Castiel’s macho-alpha ordering for one day. 

Dean does not say a word to him as he goes. 

* * *

Cas has been gone for almost an hour, now. 

Dean hasn’t moved much. The plate of food the alpha made for him is still sitting on the floor near him, untouched. He feels too cold and too tired to even consider eating, right now. He vaguely hopes that he won’t piss Cas off even more by refusing it. 

It’s that thought that makes him get up, finally. Makes him traipse down the stairs to hide the evidence of his disobedience, scraping his food into the trash. Watching the uneaten sandwich tumble into the garbage makes him feel a little hysterical. 

Just a couple of months ago, he’d have eaten _out of_ the trash. He’d have been grateful for it. He guesses that goes hand-in-hand with begging to be collared again. 

Seems like he’s equally bad at acting free _and_ being a slave. Go figure. 

Mechanically, he washes and dries his plate. Wonders where Cas’s plate is. Did the alpha eat? Probably not, judging by how guilty he’d smelled. 

Dean still doesn’t get why. Cas didn’t do anything to him he didn’t deserve. Hell, he did a lot _less_ than he deserved, honestly. Direct disobedience should be answered with a beating, at the very least. And Dean’s not even bruised. 

He ignores the urge to take _another_ shower as he passes the bathroom, curls back on the carpet where he was sitting before. He figures he should probably get in the bed, since that’s where Cas thinks he’s been sleeping. Figures he shouldn’t add anything else to his ever-growing ledger of fuck-ups. But when he thinks about doing so, he’s so nauseous he nearly pukes right there, even though his stomach is far past empty. 

Every time he closes his eyes, the alpha is there. A _hundred_ alphas are there. His skin crawls. Somehow, he can still smell sour breath. Can still feel pressure between his legs.

More than anything, he’d wanted to curl into Cas’s arms. Wanted the alpha to scent him, to scrub away the touch and the smell of that man. But the whole time he’d been in Dean’s room, Cas hadn’t reached out to him. Not even to hold his hand. And he knows he deserves that, knows he’s lucky that Cas still wants to keep him at all. But it’s still devastating. 

He lays down, curls toward the bed right where he sits. He doesn’t really deserve to hide in his usual spot – if he’s gonna break the rules _again,_ he’s at least not gonna hide it. Maybe Cas will finally punish him, if he's discovered.

Probably not, though.

He tries to sleep, because he’s tired. The sun on his back should be enough to keep his mind in the present, but it isn’t. He can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching him, can’t shake the shivers of anxiety that jolt him awake every few minutes. 

Miserable, he rolls over. His phone blinks at him from the nightstand, the last few messages from Castiel still unread. He doesn’t want to look at them. Doesn’t want to look at them _ever._

He deletes them without even looking, going so far as to cover half the screen with his hand. And it makes his heart ache to send away the first message, but he taps the little trashcan anyway. 

Coward. 

Then, not really knowing why, he opens up the internet, and plunges in. 

He’s already pissed Cas off. _Disappointed_ him. Might as well get this out of the way, too.

It takes a while to get the hang of it. Google is easy enough – the icon is still familiar, and he remembers that he can just ask it questions. He starts stupidly broad: types in, _News._ How quickly the results page loads surprises him, but it probably shouldn’t. Lots of things have changed, he knows. 

His knee-jerk urge to look up the news coverage of Hell’s destruction is something he quickly nips in the bud. It would be nice to know that the place is really gone forever, but the fear that snakes around him when he thinks about the possibility that Alastair is still alive… It’s not worth it to poke at the wound. 

He believes Cas when the alpha tells him he won’t let his former master anywhere near him. Believes that he could never fuck up _so_ bad that Cas would let Alastair take him back, even if Cas himself ends up not wanting him. Unfortunately, Dean also knows from first hand experience that there’s little Alastair won’t do to get what he wants. He’s ruthless and cold and Dean is not too proud to admit, at least to himself, that he’s fucking terrified of the possibility that the alpha is out there somewhere. And he’s had enough of being terrified today. 

So instead, he googles more innocuous information. _Distracting_ information. Stuff that will let him think about something besides his own fucked up life and fucked up self.

He learns who the president is, and learns that he’s not a fan. He learns about celebrities who have died, wars that have been fought, trends that have come and gone. He learns that there are new Star Wars and Indiana Jones movies and new albums from his favorite bands and new slang. 

He also learns, sort of by accident, that a lot has changed for people like him. 

Scrolling through an article about Pink Floyd leads him to Roger Waters’ latest album protesting against _The Man_. Apparently, it covers everything from imperialism to fascism to… slavery. He taps on it with some degree of trepidation, scanning through scathing reviews about how the prominent artist has allowed himself to get sucked into becoming _PC,_ whatever the hell that means. He snorts as he takes in the man’s responses, which range from terse to outright hostile. 

But that, of course, leads him to all kinds of articles about omegas, and then, inevitably, about slavery. He’s deep in the hole before he even knows he’s fallen in. So far in, in fact, that the sound of Cas getting home only distantly registers. 

The alpha doesn’t knock, anyway.

Dean scrolls through stories about omega pride, about protests, about the court cases that have been won in favor of omegas for the first time _ever_. Learns about the movement of omegas speaking up about being assaulted and treated as lesser, learns that same-designation marriages between alphas are now legal in all fifty states and that marriages between omegas are somehow legal in _six_. Learns that there’s a movement for omega rights in the workplace, in colleges. He reads an article about churches that had actual protesters because they dared to suggest that omegas shouldn’t be treated like property. Watches an interview with the first ever omega CEO of a multi-million dollar company. 

And, impossibly, he reads article after article about the rising tide of _abolitionists._ About people who don’t believe there should be any slaves at _all._

Some of those people are in the _government._

How has so much changed in so little time? It feels surreal, like a dream, one that he was never naive enough to consider ever becoming a reality. It’s not all good, of course – he reads the same number of articles about the backlash, about the ever-growing movement of alphas who stick with old-world traditions, about how many omegas still face arranged marriages, about how male omegas still make up more of the slave and sex trade than the other two designations combined. About how slavery will never end, because it is too _profitable,_ because it would mean that _free people_ would have to do those jobs, and, more cynically, because there wouldn’t be any incentive for people to act right rather than risk slavery sentences.

Wouldn’t be any way for desperately poor families to make money off their kids. 

He has to wonder how his dad feels about it all. Has to wonder about Sam’s place in this strange new world.

He could look them up. He _could._ Could just google his dad’s name, his brother’s name. Could google _Singer Salvage_ and probably at _least_ get a phone number. An email. 

Instead, he locks his phone and lays it face-down on the carpet next to him, wrapping his arms around himself. 

In a _heartbeat,_ he could search them up. He could let them know that he’s alive, that he’s… well, if not completely safe, then as close as he’s ever been. He could talk to his _family_ again. 

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to more than _anything,_ has missed his family every day since he signed his life away. Hell, having his little brother back would be so much of a relief that it would probably kill him.

But he’s not ready to find out what’s happened to his family. Not ready to see if he fucked Sam’s life up anyway, in the end; not ready to see if John finally drank himself to death or got himself shot, not ready to see if Bobby has even lived through the last ten years of sweltering Kansas summers without Dean there to help him at fix the perpetually busted AC at the salvage yard. And, even if they’re all perfectly fine… 

He’s not ready to know that they moved on without him. 

And in a tiny, shameful corner of himself that he hates more than _anything,_ he knows that he’s not ready for _them_ to find out what’s happened to _him._

Not ready to know what Sam would say, if he could see what a _bitch_ he is. Not ready to face Bobby’s disappointment in him for leaving his baby brother behind. Not ready to face his father – neither the fiery wrath of a living John Winchester, nor the cold grave of a dead one. 

He misses them. He misses them like he breathes _air._ Even his dad, who would call him every name under the sun for this cowardice. He _is_ a fucking coward. He hates himself for wanting to remain ignorant. But he leaves the phone untouched anyway, curling away from it. Curling away from his old life. 

Even if it’s just to keep fucking up his new one.

He lets sleep take him just as the sun is peeking over the horizon.

* * *

When Castiel knocks on his door, he’s _still_ asleep. 

He jolts awake, heart pounding, scrambling to his knees as quickly as he can – disoriented for a few seconds before he figures out why he isn’t chained to the bed and why he isn’t cold. Like a kick to the chest, he remembers that no one expects this of him, not anymore. Relief crashes through him, but not fast enough.

He knows Cas catches a whiff of terror because his voice is sharp when it comes through the door. “Dean?”

“Yeah? I mean – wait,” he blurts, still reeling, but it’s too late. Cas has opened the door, and he’s still on the floor. Wrapped up in a blanket. 

Obviously and _unapologetically_ throwing Cas’s offer of the bed back into his face. And the willingness to be caught that he'd felt last night is not present in the light of day.

He’s scrambled to his feet before his brain can really communicate with his limbs, and he manages to tangle himself in the blanket badly enough that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the bed rather than fall on his face. He pauses for a second, gathers himself before slowly angling himself to sit on the edge of the mattress, as if that will hide what he’d been doing from the alpha. 

When he looks up, red in the face, Cas is staring at him. 

“Were you… were you sleeping on the _floor_ _?”_

Dean flushes harder, looks away. “Um.” His eyes land on the clock next to his bed – it’s past noon. No wonder Cas is up here. 

“Why?”

Cas’s voice holds no emotion but confusion – he’s not angry. Dean wonders when he’ll stop being surprised by that. He still feels like something is squeezing his chest, like he had that first night when Castiel had offered him a blanket and he’d been so confused that he’d left it on the ground rather than use it. 

“I just – I can’t, um. Can’t sleep. There.” The words are halting, ugly, and he grimaces and tries again. “I don’t know. It makes me feel… exposed.”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “But the other night –”

“The other night, you were _with_ me,” he blurts before he can think better of it, and Cas’s mouth parts a little in surprise. 

“Oh.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest, feeling like the slightest thing Cas might say could crack him down the middle. He’s embarrassed, and raw, and _sorry,_ and above all, he’s sick to death of _himself_. Of his inability to be _normal._

“Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Dean.”

And, quite suddenly, he’s _furious._ Pissed at himself, pissed that Cas has to keep dealing with these bullshit neuroticisms, and pissed _at_ the alpha for pretending there’s nothing wrong. 

He grits his teeth. “Yeah, I do. You’re going out of your way to be fucking _nice_ to me and I can’t even…”

Castiel shakes his head. “Offering you a place to sleep is common decency, not me being gracious.”

“Yeah, but it _isn’t,_ Cas!” Dean’s voice is _loud,_ probably louder than it’s been since Cas bought him. “Do you not get that? Do you not know how you’re _supposed_ to treat me, how everyone _else_ has fucking treated me? Do you not know that everything you’ve done is the nicest _anyone_ has ever been to me?!” 

He’s blinking back tears now, hot and angry and _ashamed,_ and he clenches his fists as he sits there like a bratty little kid on the edge of the bed while his _master._ _Stands._ Stands stunned, across the room, while his _slave_ screams at him. “And I can’t even be grateful, can’t even show you how much I appreciate it, because my brain’s too fucked up to accept it! Because I don't _deserve it!"_

Cas cuts in, or at least tries to. “That's not true. You’re healing, Dean, and it will take time for you to –”

“To _WHAT!?”_ He _is_ yelling now, his teeth snapping together in frustration as he spits out poison. He leaps up, his hands balled into fists. “To be _normal_ again? To stop being afraid of everything from the fucking furniture to a goddamn _store?_ To be able to stop waking up in a cold sweat on my _knees_ because I think my old master is just outside the door, in the corner of the room, in the bed next to me? To be able to go out into public without wanting to piss myself out of fear that some random alpha is gonna – is gonna see what I am and just – just t-take whatever the _fuck_ he wants –” he can’t breathe, can’t _breathe,_ “or that I’m just gonna s-sit there and fucking _let him–”_

He’s shaking, vision blurry at the edges, but he’s on a roll now, can’t stop the avalanche of words out of his mouth, even if it’s going to bury him alive. “It’s been a lifetime since I was free, Cas. Eleven _years._ And I ain’t ever coming back from that, no matter how much you want me to. This new world, this place where omegas are standing up for themselves, trying to _change_ things – that’s not for me. I’m too much of a fucking _coward.”_

He sits. Presses his fist into his thigh, takes a shuddering breath because he can see blackness crowding in at the edges of his vision, can feel himself teetering on the edge of his sanity. He knows he's not making sense, knows he's spinning out of control - but he can't _stop._ “I can’t even make myself check up on my _family_. Can’t even see if they’re _alive_. How can I be a monster like that, and still live with myself? How can you call me a _person_ _,_ knowing that?” His voice cracks, stupid and _weak_. Just like him. “All I can do is be someone’s bitch. And I ain’t even good at _that.”_

Dean hears the alpha move into the room. Hears Cas take a seat next to him, gentle and slow enough that he doesn’t even jostle the bed. 

And in response, following some instinct that he hates himself for, Dean slides right down to the carpet and lands on his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen - I know. I KNOW. I'm SORRY. I'm going to try and post the new chapter early - it's actually mostly done! No bricks at my window, please!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Sorta. I thought I'd give y'all an early [insert choice of winter solstice celebration here] present! Also, I felt bad leaving y'all on that cliffhanger... some of your comments were downright distraught >: ) I loved reading all the feedback regardless, and I promise I'll get back to you guys ASAP!
> 
> Trigger warnings for the chapter are in the notes below. They're comparatively mild to the last few chapters, but I still wanted to include them.

Being back here should do nothing but scare Dean out of his mind. Should make his stomach turn, should make his brain jagged with anxiety and dread. Should remind him of all the pain he has endured on his knees. 

But it doesn’t. 

Out of all the uncertainty, this, at least, is something he understands. Something he can do _right._ Being down on the ground, being low, having his alpha above him… it makes something inside of him unclench and relax for a million different reasons that he can’t even begin to unpack. Can’t begin to understand. 

Maybe he really was born to be below everyone else.

He’s dipping forward till his brow hits the carpet, till the crown of his head is nudging Castiel’s shoes. He makes a high, pleading noise, not exactly sure who he’s pleading with, or what he’s pleading for. _Why_ he’s bowing. 

It could be that it’s some sick sort of muscle memory – though he’s never done this willingly, he’s still _done_ it. Could be it’s his desperate desire to be forgiven, or his pathetic, bone-deep need to please. Could be all three tangled together, tripping over each other. 

Could be that it’s the desire to be _comforted_ , to feel _safe_ , a need that has gone unmet for the last decade of his life. If not longer. 

His hands twitch on either side of him at the thought. The carpet feels strange under his fingertips, and with a sick lurch he understands that’s because he isn’t used to them being free. To not having his arms twisted behind his back, either with restraints or commands. He’s never been in this position with the freedom to get _away._ Never _chosen_ this before. But he is choosing now, and he breathes the alpha’s scent in through his mouth, and he tells himself that Cas would never, ever hurt him. 

Cas isn’t pleased by Dean’s supplication like every alpha before him has been – in fact, he sounds almost _scared,_ his voice rough and shocked. “Dean?” 

Dean can’t do anything but shake his head, eyes shut tight. He _can’t_ justify this, can’t even try. _He_ doesn’t even understand why he’s doing it – all he knows is what feels right. “Please,” he chokes out, not even sure what the hell he’s asking for. 

Cas’s hand settles on top of his head, his touch as shaky and light as a falling leaf. It isn’t until Dean lets out something like a strangled plea that he cards his fingers through his hair. 

With a sharp, hitching sob, he presses into the alpha’s hand. Feels the anchor of his touch. Takes shuddering breath after shuddering breath. And Cas keeps petting him. He can’t even call it anything else, because that’s _exactly_ what he’s doing. What Dean is asking for. 

After a while, Cas cups his face with the other hand, warm and steady, and slowly guides him up from the carpet until he’s braced against the alpha’s knees. And Dean thinks that will be the end – thinks Cas will want him to come back to reality, will want him to act like a man and not a quivering, lost child. But when he’s there, the alpha _keeps_ touching Dean, keeps running his hands through Dean’s short, unkempt hair, keeps stroking his thumb under Dean’s cheek. Soothing. Strong. 

It feels good. It feels _really_ good. 

But it’s still, somehow, not enough. He could _cry_ when he realizes it – when he understands that his heart is not slowing, that his anxiety is still twisting through him like white hot snakes. As comforting as the alpha is, it’s not what his _body_ wants. He makes a high, pathetic noise in the back of his throat – a whine, he _whines –_ and clenches his fists in his lap when the alpha’s hands stop. He’s scared, and he’s needy, and he’s so, so confused.

He chokes out another sob, hunching forward. 

“Cas, _please –”_ but he doesn’t know _what he wants;_ all he knows his skin is too tight on his body and he can feel his heart trying to slam its way out of his chest, and if he doesn’t calm the fuck down he thinks he might explode into a million tiny shards of glass, too broken to ever be fixed. 

And then... the alpha’s hand is moving down from his hair, and down further, and then it stops. He’s _waiting,_ holding his breath, and Dean, suddenly understanding exactly what Cas means to do, goes blind and blank with panic and snaps his hand up to close it around the alpha’s, holding him in place. And Cas doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move a fucking muscle. 

Dean’s hand shakes. He can feel Castiel’s hand underneath his. Warm and strong and safe. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him. 

He knows who Cas _is._ Knows his guilt and his kindness and his gentle, golden soul. And, for once in his long, godless life, Dean takes a leap of faith. He lets go. 

Cas’s touch moves down just another inch further.

And the world slows. 

* * *

At the start of his freshmen year, Dean had gone to school in a little podunk town, smack-dab in the middle of Mississippi. He’d been the only omega male in that grade, and one of about ten omegas total – a tiny percentage of the school, even as small as the town had been. He and the omega girls had all been tossed together at the start of the year for _special_ classes instead of the usual choice of electives. Sewing, cooking, cleaning. Things that made Dean even more eager to drop out completely and spend his time making ends meet, rather than waste it being shaped into a housewife. 

One of those classes had been _Omega Health Science._ It was a _science_ course only in name, as he found out. Essentially, the class had boiled down to two messages: Keep Your Legs Together, and, somewhat conversely, Get Mated And Knocked-Up ASAP. He’d skipped that fucking nightmare of a period more than any other, still raw from presenting just the year before. Still rankling at being an omega at _all._

One morning in class – one of the few he’d bothered to attend – his teacher had set up an _ancient_ documentary on a boxy TV and had warned her measly little class to pay attention, because today they’d be learning something that would _color the rest of their days._ Her favorite phrase. Funny, for a woman who’d taught them that all their life would amount to was being someone’s live-in maid and pup producer. 

The narrator of the hokey, 80s era video had called it the _scruffing spot,_ a nauseating little nickname for the sensitive bundle of cells on an omega’s nape that most of them had been too young to even know they had. The teacher had talked over the biological explanation in the video, had _fast forwarded_ straight through the _sexual_ portion. Then she’d spent the rest of the period stressing how crucial it was for them to find a mate as soon as they could so they could experience the _freedom_ of being owned. How _wonderful_ and _natural_ it was to be put in their place when an alpha took control. 

Then she’d really gotten on her soapbox. Had told them how important it was to avoid being “promiscuous” – a euphemism for independent, if you asked Dean – because that spot would instead become a liability. Would make them easy to take advantage of. How they _needed_ an alpha for protection, because of course they’d never be able to protect themselves. 

Of course, she _hadn’t_ explained that it was essentially an omega stun gun. He’d found that out the hard way.

Dean had just scoffed at the time, fourteen and angry at the world already, and had written off the lesson as fear-mongering; as just another thing alphas made up to scare omegas into being obedient little housewives and baby-makers. After all, he’d touched his _own_ neck tons of times, and nothing scary had ever happened to him. And sure, he’d heard of something like that with omegas before, but he’d been confident he was better than some measly bit of bitch biology. Stronger. He was a Winchester, after all, and Winchesters didn’t yield. 

He’d been _wrong._

His dad had spat enough drunken vitriol about how much of a pathetic bitch he was that he really should have known it wasn’t bullshit. 

The first time someone used it to get the drop on him, just a few days into his _training,_ he’d thought he’d been drugged. It’d been horrifying to realize that he really _did_ have a built-in off button that they could use to get an edge whenever they wanted. And they _had._

Then the alphas had used it to control him. Had laid their heavy, hot hands there and pressed and squeezed until he was drooling and dazed and compliant, too out of it to protest. He hadn’t _once_ wanted it. He’d fought until his own biology had shut him down; something often made pathetically easy when he was already exhausted and malnourished. No matter how long he resisted, an alpha could always hold on longer. 

But the trainers – and even the alphas that came after _–_ had never _hurt_ him there. It was taboo, other omega slaves had told him. The abuse of it was steeped in religious and superstitious warnings, and in ritualistic significance. Dean hadn’t known. Probably because the only thing John Winchester hated more than his son being a certified bitch was the thought of him becoming a _religious_ one. 

After all, his dad had a vendetta against God and those who followed Him that had replaced, and perhaps outgrown, his love for his wife; killed far before her time by that same _loving_ entity. 

Dean had just been relieved that _someone’s_ god was protecting him, even if it was accidental; he’d thought that in this small way, at least, he was safe. It was the _one_ part of his body that could be touched but never injured – _used,_ but never _hurt._ And that had held true for years.

Right up until Hell. 

Alastair had bruised him there. Bit him there – never hard enough to mate, but hard enough to scare Dean into thinking he would. He had, more than once, _whipped_ him there; it’d been pain like Dean had never known, fire straight from the pit. And it _had_ felt like wrath of an angry God – only it had been brought down on the victim, rather than the aggressor. 

Typical. 

But Cas _isn’t_ Alastair. His touch is always gentle; never sharp, never biting. 

It’s no different now. 

* * *

The alpha inhales slowly. Exhales slowly. His hand is frozen in place, and Dean’s heart is frozen in his chest. Then Cas is stroking his thumb in a way that feels reverent, and Dean is _gone._

Someone keens. He thinks, dazedly, that it could have been him. 

He doesn’t _understand._ It’s never been like this before. The best he could have hoped for from this kind of touch was a drugged haze, dizzying and nauseating vertigo. Something like running in a dream. And in the last few years, touch here had often brought agony, simple and devastating. To the point where he’d slept with his hands wrapped protectively around the back of his neck every single night in Hell. 

But this… this is peace. 

“It’s alright,” Cas is murmuring, brushing away tear tracks that Dean doesn’t remember making. He cups Dean’s face with his other hand, repositions him gently, lays his head against the side of his thigh. Dean lets him, doesn’t even _care._ “It’s alright, Dean. I have you.”

He makes another embarrassing noise when the alpha bends and presses his brow to the crown of Dean’s head. The even, measured movements of his chest are predictable and comforting. He holds him close. Drags his thumb up and down his nape. 

Guided by some unknown force, Dean reaches up and clumsily cups his palm around the back of the alpha’s neck in return. 

He can _feel_ Cas’s sharp gasp, can almost hear his heart accelerate. The touch on his nape jerks to a stop for a split second before the alpha moves so quickly that he _fumbles;_ his other hand snaps up to press Dean’s nose to the crook between his neck and his shoulder. 

Dean takes a shuddering breath. Then another. Cas does the same.

Alphas aren’t sensitive back there, not like omegas, but what Dean’s doing right now has meaning. Even _he_ knows that, as fucked up as his life has been, and as empty as his head is right now. 

They stay like that for a while, suspended. Floating. Breathing together.

Cas opens his eyes at the same time Dean does. His pupils are blown. And his expression is achingly soft. 

Dean tips his head back. Meets the alpha’s gaze with hooded eyes, heart thudding slowly. Evenly. He bares the line of his throat for reasons he doesn’t understand. 

For _Cas._

The alpha’s face just… _crumples._ He looks, dangerously, like he’s about to cry. “Dean, can I – I need you up here with me, please. Please.”

Dean’s feet are under him before he even has to think about it, because when an alpha wants something like that from an omega, it’s just _instinct_ to comply. At least, that’s what he tells himself when Cas helps him up from the floor and onto the bed, wrapping his arms around him and pressing Dean’s head to his chest as they lay together. What he tells himself when none of that scares him, not even the alpha’s hand settling on his nape once more, warm and heavy. Not even Dean’s hand returning to the alpha’s neck in turn, automatic.

He closes his eyes, and when he does, the warm, spaced out feeling returns full force. And he’s floating. He’s splayed out on the grass in the sunshine. 

He’s safe. 

“Forgive yourself,” Cas orders. His voice is all _alpha_. Clearly, he ain’t giving Dean much of a choice; he punctuates the command with a gentle squeeze around Dean’s nape, one that makes him stutter out a sigh. Rumbles, “You _deserve_ forgiveness. And you deserve to be happy.”

And, instead of bucking against the alpha tone and touch like he’s done so often in the past, Dean _relaxes_ at it. Feels himself slip a little deeper into pleasant nothingness.

Cas wants him to be happy. He wants him to be _happy._ God, _Dean’s_ not even sure he wants that, not really. But if Cas thinks he deserves it, maybe he does. 

“You have been through hell and back again, more times than any man should. And it has _hurt_ you. I’m so sorry for how much it has hurt you,” Cas says, tightening his hold on Dean for a moment, his voice breaking. “But you are _strong._ You have so much love inside of you, so much kindness. And you will heal. This is not your end, Dean. It is your beginning.”

“’m _scared,”_ Dean slurs, because he _is_ scared, terrified of this new world and of not knowing his place in it. Only this time, he tells Cas his fears not because he thinks that he’s been _ordered_ to, but because he wants to. He wants _comfort,_ and he’ll admit that even though it should make him burn with shame. 

And, of course, Cas gives him exactly what he wants. 

Gently, he angles Dean’s face back into the crook of his neck so that he can inhale and ride the high of peace that comes with the alpha’s warm scent, sunshine after a downpour. He wraps his arm around Dean’s back and slides his hand against his ribs, palm flat and warm through his shirt, and holds him steady. 

He feels like he’s wrapped up in a sleeping bag on a cold night in the woods. Like he’s floating in a warm, lapping lake, face to the sun. He could fly up into the air and never touch the ground again. 

In this moment, he’s sure of it.

Cas speaks, and it sounds like he’s far away; at the same time, his rumbling voice is all-encompassing, the _only_ thing Dean can hear. “It is _human_ to be afraid. And I’m so proud of you for holding on to that humanity, even through the worst possible circumstances. I’m proud of how far you’ve come.” He cards his fingers through the short hair on his nape, the movement syrupy and calm. “How far you will go.”

Dean can’t even dredge up the focus he would need to reply. He just sighs, presses in closer to Cas, and lets himself _be._

* * *

Dean isn’t asleep – not exactly. But he might as well be in a coma for how responsive he is. Castiel is careful to keep still, to keep his breathing even and calm even though he suspects that a train could barrel past the house and Dean would remain undisturbed. Eyes half-closed, one hand curled loosely into Castiel’s shirt, the other still cupping the back of his neck. He is, quite simply, _away._

He keeps stroking his thumb up and down Dean’s nape anyway, loathe to risk rousing him. Loathe to take away this peace. 

He’s never done this before, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He knows enough about the science of it to have a rough idea of what’s happening, and somehow, his atrophied instinct has managed to cover the rest. 

It _has_ to be enough, because Dean deserves it. 

He is in so much pain. So angry at himself for things outside of his control, so quick to dismiss his inherent worth because of what others have done to him. So obviously terrified of losing his place in the world, even if that place is painful and cruel. And Castiel has taken away everything he knows, everything that is familiar. He is beginning to understand just how overwhelming that must be. 

Even the most dire of circumstances can bring strange comfort, once they are rote. Change, however positive, is _frightening._

And Dean _had_ been frightened. He’d postured, and he’d paced, and he’d shouted, but what had looked like fury had really been frustration and fear. He can still smell it in the air – a warped, caustic scent that had burned his nose. Can still feel his ears ring at the broken fury and _grief_ in his voice. And when Castiel closes his eyes, he sees him as he’d been after; bowed so low his head had touched the carpet. 

But then… 

He’d known what to do. Known exactly what Dean needed. For once, he’d been _sure._ And Dean had let him – had _trusted_ him not to hurt, not to take advantage. Had allowed Castiel to touch that sacred spot on his nape, even though he’s been hurt there so often, and so badly, that his one consistent defiance – if _defense_ can be considered such – has been to hide it. To protect it. 

He sees the line of Dean’s throat, exposed and pale; the depthless pool of pupils under his hooded eyes. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the flush on his cheeks. His hand, warm and steady on Castiel’s neck. 

Castiel has never been around an omega while they’re in this state. _Down,_ lots of people call it, and he can see why. Dean’s body is loose, his breathing even and slow, his eyes distant when they open slightly now and again. He is calm, and at peace, but he is not here. Not… present. 

It would be all too easy to hurt Dean while he’s like this. To push his thumb down on his nape and dominate him, _erase_ him. Coerce him to do things he doesn’t want to do. Castiel _knows_ that other alphas have done that to him. He can only imagine how terrifying it must be, to have your willpower sapped away by some errant quirk of evolution, to be able to be coerced by something built into your very body. 

Once, Balthazar had described it to him as a feeling of betrayal. Had told him that, the first time it’d happened to him, he’d thought he’d lost his mind completely. 

He’d made it clear that it could feel good, too – quite the _natural high_ – but that, all too often, it was used and abused for the wrong purposes, rather than for the stress relief and strengthening of bonds that mother nature had intended. 

_“It’s like your brain slows down,”_ he’d said, frowning out into the courtyard. It had early on in their partnership, early on in the center’s opening. And the omega had only just begun to trust him with details like this, things he needed to understand as an alpha that wanted to help omegas. _“You start to forget why you were saying no in the first place, the longer it goes on. Not that you can’t resist it – you can. But it gets harder and harder. Like being exhausted and needing to sleep. You can only keep pinching yourself awake for so long.”_

If there had been any other path to try, Castiel never would have risked this with Dean. But something inside of him had _urged_ him to do this, to offer this sort of relief. And Dean had _allowed_ him to. Had, in the only way he could, _asked_ him to. He knows that matters. 

But Castiel also knows that, in all likelihood, Dean won’t remember the finer details of this once he wakes up. 

That _terrifies_ him. 

He would never abuse Dean’s trust intentionally, but this responsibility… it scares him. One of the disadvantages of being an alpha that is inexperienced with _domination_ is that he doesn’t really know what to do with the sudden power that Dean has placed in him. All he can do is follow his instincts. 

He’s taken great pains to ignore and unlearn those feral alpha tendencies, so he’s more than a little lost.

Dean shifts slightly, his nose pressing closer to Castiel’s scent gland behind his ear, and the omega lets out a little sigh that hits his skin like lightning. Then he’s asleep, the rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest smoothing out just enough that Castiel can tell. 

He sucks in a breath and holds it, tries to overcome a wave of _something_ that he doesn’t understand. It’s heady, invigorating. He feels like the world around him has narrowed to just this; just Dean. His soft breathing. The rhythmic stroke of Castiel’s thumb against his nape. The very scent of him, heady and intoxicating; vanilla and apples and flakey, sweet pastries. 

He never wants to let him go. 

As though it is on _fire,_ Castiel snatches his hand from the omega’s neck and turns his face away, eyes screwed shut – pants through his mouth, tries to wrestle himself under control. Blessedly, Dean is out like a light, and doesn’t so much as shift against him. 

He lays there and trembles for a long moment before he has to _move_. 

As carefully as he can, he slides away from Dean and moves to the edge of the bed, sitting up slowly. Everything in him protests. The feral _thing_ inside him is howling, snapping, telling him to return to his omega and hold and claim and protect. And that’s exactly why he leaves, shutting the door behind him and padding carefully down to his office. He refuses to risk hurting Dean by giving in to those instincts. 

Benny picks up his call on the third ring, and Castiel can’t help but slump in relief. He leans forward in his office chair and listens to the beta’s calm Cajun rumble. 

“Afternoon, boss,” he says. Castiel can hear him typing away on his computer. “What can I do for you?”

“I…” he trails off, not sure where to begin. Dean’s reminder that _he_ needs therapy bounces around inside his brain like a pinball. “Would it be considered unethical to set up an appointment with you?”

Benny makes a low humming noise. “Now, boss, I thought we talked about that. Dean’s gotta make that decision for himself–”

“For me.”

The typing stops abruptly. There’s a pause. “Well, no. It don’t bother me if it don’t bother you.”

Castiel lets out a long breath. “Okay. I’d like to… yes. Schedule that. On the same day that Dean sets his appointment, if possible.” He pauses. “If he agrees to meet you at all, that is. I know it’s his choice.”

Benny’s voice is careful now. He’s undoubtedly sensed the tension in Castiel’s voice. “Sure, brother.” He pauses again. “Or we could just do this now.”

Relief washes over him, and he nods, forgetting Benny can’t see him. “Can I ask what brought this on?”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “I’m… struggling.”

“With Dean?”

“With myself.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m worried about how I’m… reacting to him.”

Benny hums, urging him on. “Which part, exactly?”

“I’m worried about… about my alpha… instincts,” he fumbles, and flushes immediately. He’s glad the therapist can’t see him. “I’ve never… I mean, I’m not _really_ an alpha male, Benny. You know that. I’m beta in every way except my designation title.”

Benny considers that for a moment. He doesn’t contradict Castiel, but he also doesn’t agree, and that makes something uncomfortable squirm inside of him. “I’m hearing that you think you’re experiencing real alpha instincts for the first time, and they’re freaking you out a little. Do I have that right?”

Castiel swallows. “Yes.”

“Could you give me an example?”

“I…” 

He doesn’t really want to walk out the story of yesterday again, not so soon. But he thinks he needs to, to give Benny a full understanding of where his head is. So he does, and the beta doesn’t, surprisingly, seem all that perturbed by it.

“Without getting into the nitty gritty,” the therapist says, his voice compassionate, “you were working off of a pure limbic system fight response there, boss. With that much adrenaline, it’d’ve been _real_ hard for your brain to walk it back and switch gears into comfort mode. Almost impossible, especially since you ain’t really used to that alpha aggression.”

“That’s not an excuse for what I said to him,” he says, miserable. He feels like he’s having to repeat himself. “It’s… he didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Benny agrees, though he doesn’t sound at all hostile. “But you know that already. And you’ve apologized, and you’ll continue tryin’ to make it right. ”

His throat hurts. “Of course.”

“So, there,” Benny says, like it’s really that simple. “No need to stress over it anymore. You’ll see it through.”

“Easy to say,” he chokes, voice a bit rough. 

Benny sighs. “You’re doin’ pretty good for someone with no real training, brother. Don’t forget, you got thrown in these rapids with no raft. You’re gettin’ the hang of it, and in the meantime, it’s an accomplishment to keep your head above water. Even if it don’t feel that way.”

It’s nice to hear Benny have some degree of confidence in him, even if it’s unwarranted. Makes the pain in his chest ease a little. But when he thinks about what just transpired between him and Dean, he’s so not sure he deserves that relief. 

“There’s more, ain’t there?” Benny presses calmly.

The therapist waits patiently as he gathers his thoughts. He closes his eyes, feels the ghost touch of Dean’s nose on his scent gland, his hand on Castiel’s neck. How can something that felt so good be so inarguably wrong? 

“I…” He feels dirty, feels… primal. But he admits it anyway, because Dean deserves the best help he can get. And if _Cas_ wants to help him, he has to get himself in order first. 

“He sort of, um. Had what I believe would be called a panic attack,” he sums up lamely, not sure how else to describe the torrent of frustration that Dean had let burst forth. It isn’t really his place to expose the specifics of Dean’s emotional turmoil, so he skips over the details, and jumps right to the heart of the matter. 

“He let me touch his nape. He… I guess I? I sort of asked him if I could, because he was…” He closes his eyes. “He was lost. I’m not sure how else to explain.”

“I can’t say I’ve heard it put quite like that before, but I think I follow,” Benny says encouragingly. “Though, I still ain’t exactly clear on what the problem is.”

“He _let_ me.” Castiel closes his eyes. “I brought him down.”

“Never done that before, huh?” Benny asks. He clearly knows the answer. 

“No. It was…” He’s not sure how to describe it. How to put words to the raw feeling that had rushed through him as he’d watched Dean fall apart at his feet, the _wrongness_ of that. The dizzying sensation of rubbing away the omega’s distress with his touch alone, the heady pride of being trusted. 

“It felt good.” The calm, blunt way Benny says it makes Castiel’s shoulders slump in shame. 

“... Yes. It did.”

“That’s normal, boss.” He can hear Benny cracking his knuckles, and imagines him leaning back in his padded leather office chair. “Just biology. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Castiel grimaces. “I don’t understand. I’m happy to help him,” he clarifies, “but this was… different. More primal. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“How intimate have you gotten with omegas in the past?” the man asks pointedly. He knows Castiel’s history pretty well, so the question is rhetorical. He plows on. “Did you hurt him?”

 _“No.”_ The very idea makes him queasy. 

“Did he appear to be afraid of your actions?”

“Well… no.” Quite the opposite, in fact – Dean’s fear scent had vanished the instant he’d touched him. 

“Well, alright then. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I liked the way it felt _too_ much, Benny! I liked the control!” he bursts out, frustrated, overwhelmed by the whiplash of being so _out_ of control. “I wanted to – God, I wanted to… to _keep_ him, or something, I don’t even know. He _trusts_ me, and trusts that I won’t hurt him, and that feels so… it feels so good, so _right_. But how can I be worthy of that trust if I have this _animal_ shouting in my brain that tells me to – to take hold – and – ”

“Deep breaths, brother.” Benny’s low, Louisiana baritone interrupts him, jars him out of his panic spiral. “In and out with me. In…. out.”

He breathes, and breathes some more, and eventually the room stops spinning and he’s back on solid ground. “I’m alright,” he finally says, quiet and more than a little ashamed by his outburst.

Benny sighs. “Boss, you’re an alpha. There are certain parts of your biology that you just can’t ignore, no matter how hard you try. I don’t mean you have _no_ self control – it’s obvious that you do, or you wouldn’t be on the phone with me right now,” he rumbles, calm and reassuring. “I’m just talking about you feelin’ those protector instincts.”

“... Protector?” he repeats skeptically. He’s not sure what he’d been _protecting_ Dean from. There’d been no one in the room but them. 

“Yes. Think about it. You’re hardwired by evolution to guard vulnerable members of a pack, yeah? That’s why alphas are typically a bit bigger, why they tend to be a little more aggressive and hyperaware. Makes you a better protector. It’s easier to do that if your body is inclined toward it physically, right?”

“I… I guess,” he says slowly. He doesn’t understand where Benny is going with this. 

“Alright. So you’re hardwired to protect, and in front of you, you have a person that needs a hell of a lot of that. You’re scenting their distress day in and day out, and naturally, that upsets you, as it would anyone.”

“Of course.”

“Now add to the mix that the person who is in distress is an _omega,_ the designation that is most likely, in that same pack setting, to have kids. To raise offspring and further generations. Way back when, it was in humans’ best interest to keep those members safe from all harm – just in terms of species survival, if nothin’ else.” He chuckles. 

“But that was then!” Castiel bursts out. “We live in _modern_ society – we aren’t hunter-gatherers anymore. I don’t care about him just because he’s supposed to be _fertile,”_ he spits, disgusted. 

“Stick with me, brother. That’s true, and we both know that. No one doubts it. But the roots of evolution don’t just go away.” He pauses, waits for Castiel to acknowledge he’s paying attention. 

“I’m listening,” Castiel says, albeit reluctantly. 

“Good.” He sighs. “It’s a lot easier to safeguard someone from harm if you know exactly how they feel, and have the tools to fix it. Ergo, the more physically intense alpha-omega bond that so many people with those designations experience. The desire to keep each other safe and content.”

Castiel supposes that makes sense. For as much as he’d been puzzled by his more intense bond with Dean, he’d never stopped to consider _why_ that relationship might have formed in the first place. Never considered the science behind it. “I think I understand,” he says slowly. “At least, I get why I was able to… to help him. But why did it feel so… right?” He swallows. “Why did I want to…” 

To keep going. To hold on, even when Dean didn’t need him any more.

Benny hums. “This is sorta conjecture, at this point, because only _you_ know why you feel the way you do about your actions. But I’d hazard a guess that it’s got a lot to do with your body’s biological reward system. Ain’t so different from having endorphins in your blood after you work out. That sort of feeling can get addicting.”

“I can’t just let instincts control my actions,” he growls, frustrated with himself. “He’s _scared_ of people touching him there, and I _know_ that, and I did it anyway. And it worked out this time, but… but what if…” 

He trails off, throat tight. “Just because I’m inclined to act a certain way doesn’t mean I should.”

“Well, no. Of course not,” Benny agrees easily. “We’re intelligent, we can overcome instincts that are harmful – plenty of alphas and omegas do every day. And betas too, believe it or not,” he adds with a chuckle. 

His tone regains some of its gravity, though, when he goes on. “You’re right, though – _some_ give in. Some warp their actions into possessiveness and trade protection for ownership, and suddenly it's more important to them that their omega is under their thumb than it is that they are happy. It becomes a relationship about overpowering and controlling the other person, rather than cultivating mutual trust. That’s what Dean has experienced, I’d imagine.”

Horror creeps into him. Dean _had_ consented to his touch, Castiel is sure of it. But the line feels awfully blurred as to whether or not he _asked_ for it, or simply gave in to it. Now he’s afraid that Dean did that based on instinct too, that he didn’t _truly_ want it. That it was an action driven by terror, and that Castiel’s reaction – the feeling deep inside his chest that Dean belonged there with him, that he should never be anywhere else… 

“Is that what I did?” he whispers. “Overpowered him?”

“No.” Benny says calmly, and it’s enough for Castiel to be able to breathe again. “Boss, you’re on the good side of things. You’re tryin’ to stop him from being scared. For any alpha worth his salt, that’s the most basic inclination that there is. And any omega who ain’t too far gone has a matching instinct to search for that feeling of security.” His voice is gentle. “Dean has been hurt in the past, but he obviously trusts _you._ ” 

When Castiel says nothing, he pushes a little harder, speaks a little more firmly. “You did what you were supposed to do. You protected your omega. And your brain rewarded you for that, and will keep rewarding you for that. That’s all there is to it.” 

“I… He’s not _my_ omega,” Castiel finally chokes out, zeroing in on that part of Benny’s explanation because it’s the only one his brain seems to be able to sink its teeth into. “That’s… that’s barbaric.”

“He’s your slave,” Benny corrects him bluntly. Castiel flinches. “So in the most literal sense, he _is_ yours, even if you got no intention of takin’ advantage of that. But even if he weren't,” he continues, his voice a little softer, “he’s still in your home. You’re still around him on every day that ends in _y_. He’s still reaching out, lettin’ you touch him and touchin’ you in return. So, unsurprisingly, you’ve formed a pack-attachment.”

The therapist snorts. “Or, you know. Call it whatever you want – a friendship, scent bonding, hell – just _decency._ You have a vulnerable, scared person in front of you, and the worst thing your brain wants to do is keep him safe. What’s so bad about that?”

Castiel scrubs at his face, anxiety finally beginning to fade in the face of the beta’s calm, logical reasoning. “You don’t think I did anything wrong? You don’t think that I’ll… hurt him?”

“Brother, I’m not sure you could lay a hand on that man if you tried.”

Relief floods him, chased by a smaller pang of self loathing. He’s familiar with it. This is what he gets for running away from being an alpha his whole life. He doesn’t resent Dean for awakening these things inside of him, but he _is_ afraid – mostly of himself. He’s always been scared of what he doesn’t know, what he can’t control. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he says finally, and he means it. It feels foolish, now, that he’s taken up the man’s time to discuss things he should already know.

“If havin’ talks like this bothered me, I’d be pretty goddamn miserable,” Benny jokes, his voice a low, gentle rumble. “We all need an outside perspective sometimes. No shame in asking for it. No _honte,_ as we say in Lafayette,” he adds, a smile in his words. “You believe in the power of askin’ for help when it comes to other people. Extend that same grace to yourself, why don’t you?”

Castiel’s mouth twists. “I just… I feel as though these things should not have to be explained to me,” he admits quietly. “I’ve seen so much of the bad side of alphas that I seem unable to understand what behavior is normal, or harmless, and what isn’t.”

“You ain’t those alphas,” Benny says simply, rooting straight through his words to the core of his fear, “and you never will be. You just don’t have that cruelty in you, boss.”

Castiel isn’t so sure, but the reassurance is a balm all the same. He clears his throat. “Thank you, Benny.”

“Anytime. And I mean that. We can talk more after Dean’s session, if you still want to.” He chuckles. “Gotta say, I’ve been wantin’ to get you in my office for a while now. So don’t be a stranger.”

He half laughs, not sure how to feel about that. It seems to be clear to everyone around him that he needs help – to Balthazar, to Dean, and, apparently, to his own resident therapist. “Thank you. And… I won’t.”

“Aye,” Benny says wryly, and the call ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to point out that I am, quite obviously, NOT a therapist, and NOT a biologist (even for a fake world of fake secondary genders). If any part of Benny's discussion with Cas rang particularly foul to you, please don't hesitate to reach out in the comments. I'm more than willing to hear constructive criticism in that area, because I want to do it justice.
> 
> TWs: Dean references some non-con moments with previous alphas. Nothing at all that's graphic, but it's sprinkled in. There's also quite a bit of him speaking poorly about himself and his secondary gender - but I think that's par for the course at this point! Otherwise, there's some sexist language and themes, and some (possibly?) triggering descriptions of evolutionary... gender... roles? I'm not sure how else to put that. Oh, and a touch of John Winchester's A+ parenting.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hella introspection ahead, even for this fic. Read with caution. Dean is very much in his own head and is also very much an unreliable narrator (I should add that as a tag, huh?) This chap is part of a pair that I worked on for a while - I don't love this one, but I think the next one (it's from Cas's point of view) hits different.
> 
> Please point out any typos or nonsense you spot: my usual editing process is on hold because I wanted to post this before I leave town for an overdue camping trip :)
> 
> Hope you all are having a wonderful holiday season, despite the circumstances. I'm stupid behind on replying to comments, but I'm going to tackle that tomorrow. Stay safe out there. 
> 
> Trigger warning at the end for some particularly *spicy* thoughts.

Castiel is not there when Dean wakes up. 

It seems to be the only thought in his head. The one concrete thing he can wrap his mind around. And that’s… strange. Cas ain’t _ever_ there when he gets up in the morning, so that shouldn’t even be pinging on his radar. He’s in his bed, and _that_ should be alarming, but it isn’t. There’s a weird sort of fog in his brain – something making him a little slower. A little heavier.

It’s not unpleasant, somehow. It’s… warm. He’s comfortable.

But it strikes him as wrong, that he should be so content. It’s not like it happens very often. So, in spite of his desire to stay pleasantly blank, he starts yanking on the pull-start of his brain, faster and faster, till it kicks and coughs to life. And, in bits and bites, little flashes start to come back. 

He groans, turns over, puts a pillow over his head without even opening his eyes. He has no idea what time it is, no idea how long he’s been asleep. No idea why he’s in his bed, or why he’s apparently _okay_ with being in his bed, instead of in his usual little nest on the floor. 

It trickles in that his face is stiff with dried tears. That his throat is sore. 

From crying. From yelling.

Oh, God. 

He _yelled._

At _Cas._

The idea is so insane that he thinks, for a moment, it must have been a nightmare. Thinks he _must_ have imagined himself tearing the alpha a new one for the terrible crime of being _too nice._

Because that’s not something he would ever do, right? Dig his own grave?

He snorts. Right. No self-destruction here, no sir. _That’s_ not a Dean Winchester specialty. 

He lays there for a while and lets the memories slide back into place, wincing every time he recalls another fucked up thing he shouted at the alpha. Jesus – he’d gone completely off the rails. He was _supposed_ to be apologizing. Supposed to make Cas believe him when he said he could be better. Instead, he’d dug in his heels, and made everything _worse._

Dean used to turn himself off when he felt like that. Used to shut that shit down _before_ he cried, or screamed – before he showed any emotion at _all._ In fact, not long ago, those moments had been... frequent. To the point where Dean is willing to bet he spent just as much time feeling _nothing_ as he did feeling anything – even fear. Even dread. Even grief. 

But that feels like a lifetime ago. 

Fact of the matter is, he knows he’d done that as a defense mechanism, knows that he’d shut everything down because the alternative had _inevitably_ been bad. Nothing worse than _crying_ for an alpha who got off on your pain, or your fear. Dean had found that going blank was a sick sort of protection, both for his brain and for his body. And he'd gotten so good at it that he thought it had just become a part of him, another ugly scar on his soul.

Except, he can’t think of a scenario where he’d be able to hide anything he’s feeling from Cas. With or without a scent bond. And that's... okay. Because he doesn't _need_ to hide from him.

As twisted as it might be, Dean figures that crying like a bitch last night, _yelling…_ that means he trusts the dude beyond what he thought he could trust just about anyone. Dean trusted that he _could_ do that without risk of being backhanded, or whipped, or gagged for his insolence. 

He’s so far past the idea that Cas could ever do something like that that it’s laughable to even consider it. So, of _course_ Dean had felt safe taking shit out on him. Of course he’d lashed out and pretended his own cowardice had anything to do with the alpha at all. 

What a piss poor excuse for gratitude. 

Dean needs to apologize right he fuck _now,_ and not because he thinks that doing so will make Cas want to keep him. His head is screwed on straight, now – he’s calmer. He knows Cas won’t drop him back off at auction, collar or no collar, obedience or no obedience. God, even the idea of it feels patently insane; he’s got no clue how he actually believed that before. He knows better. 

No, he should apologize because Cas deserves it.

He wipes the tears off his face angrily. It’s good, actually, that Cas isn’t here to see this. He’d definitely gotten enough of this shit last night. It’s good. 

Really. 

He kinda sorta wishes Cas was still here with him, actually. Now that he thinks about it. And the longer he lays there and sniffles, the more he realizes something even worse: 

He doesn’t really remember what had happened _after_ he yelled. 

Dean frowns. Sits up in his bed, glances around the dark room. There’s no light coming in from the window, so it’s got to be really early. Puzzled, he touches the blanket next to him, turns around to glance at his pillow. 

They… smell like Cas. 

There’s no fear at that realization. Maybe there should be, because for Dean, waking up smelling like an alpha with a hole in his memory has only ever meant one thing. But there’s no soreness between his legs, no headache to speak of. No lingering tang of lust in the air. No false heat burning his insides to ash.

Those things are proof he doesn't even need, anyway. Cas would never hurt him like that. 

So there has to be another explanation. He wracks his brain, frowns in the darkness as he tries to piece together how exactly he’d _stopped_ yelling at Cas, how exactly he’d woken up in his bed with nothing but a lingering feeling of warmth and contentment to show for all that bullshit yesterday. 

One minute he’d been pissed, so unbelievably _furious_ at himself, at the world, and at the alpha. He remembers yelling his damn fool head off. Remembers Cas coming into the room. Remembers the gentle warmth and weight on the mattress next to him. 

He glances at the floor and notices his cellphone, and a little more trickles back. Right. He’d abruptly returned to his senses and had dropped down to the floor. Probably to beg for forgiveness, like he should have been doing in the first place. He only feels a distant sort of shame at that – Cas deserves his obedience, Dean knows. He _should_ have been apologizing, and the only appropriate way for him to do that would have been on his knees. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps digging. Cas… forgave him? He must have, because he remembers Cas’s hand in his hair, on his cheek… 

But he has this niggling little doubt. This seed of _something,_ a flash of the alpha’s face. 

He’d looked… devastated. 

He’s not sure why that would be the case. _Dean_ certainly feels good, his embarrassment aside – whatever burdens he’d felt yesterday have faded into something manageable rather than something soul destroying. He’s positive that’s got everything to do with Cas, so he’s not sure what the alpha might have to feel guilty or upset about. 

From what he can recall, Cas just fixed him like he always has. He must have scented him or something. But the troubling thing is that he can’t _remember,_ can’t call up the image of Cas holding him in his arms like he can with every other time that’s happened. And it’s not because Dean was panicking – he’s done that often enough, and still, those moments with Cas are crystal fucking clear, high definition memories of safety and security that he’s gonna treasure for the rest of his life. 

But this time, there are only soft impressions in his mind, outlines of sounds and shapes and colors. It scares him, at first, that gap in his memory, the fuzzy feeling of the alpha’s touch and rumbling words. Frustrated, he rubs a hand on his face, on the back of his neck, and – 

Oh.

Even alone in his room, with no one to see, he shrinks into himself. 

Cas had... brought him down. Dean had _asked_ him to. 

His jaw clenches, hands reach up to wrap around the back of his neck almost instinctively – he covers his ears instead when he starts to hear them.

_Needy slut._

_He’s begging for it._

_He_ wants _it, look at him._

Hisses and jeers from a hundred different alphas, poisoned daggers. They echo in his head, ringing undeniably _true_ for the first time. 

He’s never asked for anything like that before. Never _wanted_ an alpha to touch him – not anywhere, and especially not _there_ . No matter what anyone had said – no matter what _anyone_ thinks, Dean has never desired to be hurt. 

_Not true,_ some insidious little voice inside of him whispers. _Not true. Did you forget?_

Dean feels his stomach turn. Of _course_ he’d asked for it then. But the heats… they don’t fucking _count._ For his sanity's sake, they can't.

But he can’t even use that as an excuse anymore, because, _without_ drugs or heat sickness, he’d basically begged for Castiel to dominate him. _Begged_ to be taken out of his own head, to let his issues become someone else’s responsibility for once, to be able to forget about the million things that are wrong with him. Just for a little while. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. 

_Fuck._

The details of the event itself are still faint. He doesn’t remember exactly what happened, but there are feelings – splotchy, formless clouds, ghosts in his memory. Castiel’s smell, his warmth, the rumble of his voice. A grounding and steadying pressure on his neck, somehow not terrifying. The pure exhaustion he’d felt, bone deep, and the satisfying drift into sleep afterwards. 

He presses his hands to his eyes and takes in a slow, shaky breath.

Again, there’s no fear. No worry that Cas took advantage, no suspicion that he did it without Dean’s say-so. The one and only time Cas actually _made_ him do something – that night, ages ago, where he’d ordered Dean to scent him – had made the alpha guilty for days. And that had been _harmless._ Hell, Cas won’t even hold his _hand_ without Dean’s permission. There’s just no reality in which the alpha did something so intensely intimate and personal without Dean asking for it – or, at the very least, _agreeing_ to it. 

And, God help him, it had _worked._ Aside from his embarrassment, aside from his growing sense of guilt and shame at needing that sort of thing at _all,_ Dean feels more peaceful than he has in a long time. He’s laying in his bed with no anxiety to speak of, when he couldn’t even consider doing that a day ago. Can inhale and feel a deep well of peace inside his chest, a balance he’d been missing before. 

Even the caustic memory of that alpha in the parking garage has faded. Instead of the man’s sour lust, Dean can only remember Castiel’s gentle honey and rain scent. Instead of bruising claws on his arm, Dean can only feel the soft touch of his alpha. 

He owes Cas so much more than an apology. 

Checking the clock is something he dreads, along with the knowledge that he will have to go downstairs and face Cas after all of that at some point. His stomach twists with shame. But he can’t hide up here forever, can’t pretend like it didn’t happen, as much as he’d like to. It’s all he’s going to be able to think about until he brings it up, and Dean’s had enough of shit like this sitting between them, building up into unmanageable mountains of anxiety and stress when they’d started off as molehills of discomfort. 

It’s four AM. The little green numbers almost look hateful. There’s not nearly enough time between now and the morning, not enough time for him to be ready. 

But there probably never would be.

He throws the covers off of himself. Goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth. Looks at his reflection and sees how much softer his face looks, how the dark circles under his eyes have faded just with one night of rest. He showers for a long time, even though he doesn’t need one – he’d showered for almost two _hours_ yesterday, just trying to get the alpha stink off of him. But he wants one to wake him up anyway. 

When he starts to get really guilty about the amount of hot water he’s wasting, he shuts the stream off. Stands in the clear glass box, completely exposed, and shivers. Closes his eyes. 

He feels the rapidly cooling water drip down his legs and pool at his feet, feels a trickle of it slide down his neck exactly where Cas had touched him so gently. His hand brushes the spot experimentally, fingers trembling a bit. Not from the cold. 

Dean has come so friggin’ far. His first night here had been... terrifying. He’d hardly been able to stand _up_ in this shower, both because of his exhaustion and his fear. For a moment, he wishes he could go back. Could grab his past self by the shoulders and look into those terrified eyes and tell him everything was gonna be okay. 

_That_ Dean wouldn’t have believed it for a second, but right now, he can’t believe anything _but._

God, Cas _did that._

Cas has made Dean feel safe in the first time in years – well and _truly_ safe, not some temporary reprieve or comparative lessening of pain. Not just with what had happened a few hours ago – with _everything_ he’s done. And he did it all for Dean. Cas is… 

He’s a good man. 

Nothing proves that more than what he’d done yesterday. He’d brought Dean _down._ Had shouldered the responsibility of Dean’s feelings and fears had allowed him the incredible gift of letting go _._ Not because he was trying to get something out of it, not because he wanted to _take_ from Dean like so many people have done in the past. He’d just done it because Dean wanted him to. Because he’d _asked_ – not in so many words, but Dean’s smart enough to know that’s what both his brain and his body wanted, even if he hadn’t understood at the time _._

And he can’t deny that it felt _right._ Like the first two puzzle pieces clicking together after spending ages flipping them all in the right direction, finding the edges, and lining up the corners. 

His stomach does a weird little flutter. So does his heart. 

The stairs creak a little as he picks his way downstairs. He’s not sure exactly why he’s going. Dean just knows that he doesn’t want to be alone in his room anymore, that the idea of sitting on the cool tile near the kitchen table sounds strangely grounding and appealing. And, insomnia or no insomnia, Cas probably won’t be awake – Dean can’t hear the TV. So he’ll be able to sift through his thoughts, will be able to come up with a gameplan on how he’s supposed to properly apologize to Cas. How he’s supposed to even _begin_ to thank and repay him for everything he’s done. 

Problem is, he _isn’t_ alone. 

The alpha is right there at the table in his usual spot, his head in his hands. There’s a cup of coffee in front of him, no longer steaming. Dean thinks that means he’s been here for a while. His shoulders are slumped, and even though Dean can’t see his face, he knows Cas is exhausted. 

Dean bats away the urge to flee right back up the stairs, and takes a slow, deep breath instead. He’s intent on steeling himself for this conversation, on finding the words to apologize for the patently crazy way he’s been acting, for the _burden_ he’s become, but… 

Castiel smells… sad. 

Guilty. 

_Scared._

Dean bites his lip. Hesitates in the doorway. _None_ of that is what he expected. Sure, he thought Cas might be upset. Dean’s been blatantly disrespectful in about a million different ways the last few days, after all. But these emotions from the alpha that so closely mirror what he himself was feeling… he doesn’t understand.

Is Cas feeling those things because of… because of _him?_ Is he down here, unable to sleep, brooding over his slave’s problems? 

Or… does he feel guilty, somehow, for giving in to what Dean asked of him? 

Dean thinks back to what Cas has said about his instincts before, thinks about all the things he’s done to make Dean comfortable here that have involved suppressing his own needs. How often he’s been guilty about reactions he didn’t really have much control over, how often he’s apologized for his behavior. The dark circles under his eyes; his constant, unrelenting judgment of himself and how he’s taken care of Dean. 

How hesitant he’d been, last night, even when Dean was literally throwing himself at his feet. That devastation he remembers on the alpha’s face is starting to make a whole lot of sense. 

Cas… doesn’t _like_ being an alpha. 

The realization probably shouldn’t rock him like it does. But the very idea that someone like Cas could be ashamed of himself for _any_ reason blows his mind – let alone that reason being something he can’t even control. 

Alphas have been on the top of the food chain since the dawn of mankind, and Dean’s never met one that doesn’t seem to _know_ that, who doesn’t seem to think he’s a God amongst men just because he’s got a friggin’ knot. 

But Cas ain’t like that. 

He’s the quietest alpha Dean has ever met. He has never flaunted himself or his strength, hasn’t bullied people using that cold steel tone that would chill a room below freezing if he wanted it to. Cas is _thoughtful,_ he’s kind. He _listens._ He’s friends with omegas and betas, he’s never once looked down his nose at someone because of their gender. And he’s _never_ taken advantage of Dean, even though the law and society both tell him he has _every_ right to do so. 

Sure, he’s checked Dean a few times. Been a little harsh with his words now and again. But God knows Dean needs it, and he honestly deserves a lot worse. He hears again what Cas had shouted at him in the parking garage, but this time, he just winces and ignores it. Swallows the knee-jerk hurt and tells himself the alpha was right, because he always is.

Because Cas is about as far from the type of alpha who _should_ be ashamed of themselves as he can get. 

The _only_ time he has seen any sort of “stereotypical” alpha behavior from the man was when it involved _keeping_ _Dean safe._ So Dean cannot wrap his head around why _that,_ of all things, would make Cas feel guilty. The only way he’s used his power is for good. Every. Single. Time. 

Yet, here the man is, drowning in what looks a whole hell of a lot like self-incrimination. Dean’s practically an expert on that – he knows what it looks like. He _shouldn’t_ be, though. Castiel has been so, so careful with him. He knows that. _Knows_ Cas wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt him, down to his bones. 

Dean’s ashamed of _himself_ for how he’s treated Cas. He’s angry at his inability to take care of his own problems. He’s frustrated that he’s unable to show gratitude the way he should. 

But he’s not _scared._

He steps tentatively into the kitchen. Cas jerks his head up at the sound of Dean’s steps on the tile, and he’s blinking moisture out of his red-rimmed eyes, instantly trying to reassmenble a mask of calm so that Dean can’t see he’s hurting. Dean’s heart aches for the alpha in that instant, twisting in his chest as he watches the man wipe his cheeks quickly with the back of his hand and clear his throat. 

“Dean. I didn’t think you’d… I thought you’d sleep through till tomorrow.”

He just shakes his head. Cas looks at him, at his wet hair and fresh clothes, and grimaces. His eyes flicker away. “I’d like to apologize.”

Dean cocks his head to the side. “Why?”

“For… so many reasons,” he says, looking down. He slowly wraps his hand around the coffee mug as if it is going to help stabilize him. “For yesterday. For what happened a few hours ago. I… you were not in your right mind,” he says haltingly, “and I feel that I may have… overstepped.”

Dean takes in a slow, deep breath. He walks over to the table, takes Castiel’s cup out of his loose, unresisting grip. It _is_ cold. Dumping the contents in the sink, he tries to ignore the prickle of Cas’s eyes on his back, tracking him silently. 

The coffee pot is still on, so he fills up the mug. Adds what he’s pretty sure is the right amount of sugar – he’s seen Cas do it enough times. Then, feeling daring, like he has something to prove, he fills up a cup of his own _without_ asking, and his hands only shake a little as he feels the phantom weight of the alpha’s gaze on him.

He turns around. Keeps his eyes on the pair of mugs. “Can we, uh, sit in the living room?”

He means for the question to come out strong, but instead, his voice is closer to a whisper. It’s _hard_ for him to ask for things, even now. 

Cas blinks up at him, stupefied, and for a horrible moment Dean is afraid he’s going to say no. Instead, he nods, the movement a little jerky, and stands up from the chair. He’s clearly been sitting there for a while, because he stumbles a bit as he follows Dean into the living room, grimaces when he folds himself down on the carpet. 

He isn’t made to be on his knees. Not like Dean is. 

Handing Cas his mug, he takes a sip from his own. The smell is a bit of a jolt; it reminds him of his first night here. It feels like years ago, but really, it's only been a little over two months. _Weeks_ of kindness and healing, even when he hadn’t believed that’s what it was. 

The alpha sits there with him in silence, _sad_ still seeping out of him, plenty of _guilt_ mixed in. There’s even a little apprehension, like Cas is nervous about what Dean is about to say. The thought would make him laugh if it wasn’t so likely to be true. 

The reminder that his opinion matters that much to the alpha is enough to jumpstart him into talking. “You didn’t overstep.”

Cas blinks at him. “I… I took you down. I’m not sure… now that I’m thinking clearly,” he explains haltingly, stopping and starting, “I’m not certain you actually asked for that.”

“I did.” 

Dean says it simply, plainly. Because even though he doesn’t want to admit that he needed an alpha to help shoulder his problems, the alternative is that Cas blames himself and thinks he took advantage of Dean. “I don’t remember everything, but I remember that, Cas. Not, uh, not with words, exactly. But it’s what I needed.” He swallows, corrects himself. “Wanted.”

Cas doesn’t really look reassured by that – maybe because he’s nervous that Dean’s memory is porous at all. He wants to reassure the alpha that he trusts him, wants to let him know that he, not even for a _second,_ believed Cas had done anything bad to him when he was in that vulnerable state. 

But he hesitates, tries to find the right words to explain. The right words to make Cas believe him. 

Whenever other alphas had bullied him into submission, he’d only ever remembered terrifying flashes, choking smells and pain. This isn’t the same. It’s not even _close_ to being the same. This is something he hadn’t even known he was missing till he had it. It’d felt…

Like coming home. It had felt like _home._

Cas doesn’t seem to see that, though, because while Dean’s chewing on his words, he’s staring down at his coffee cup like he’s contemplating drowning himself in it. 

“It wasn’t… It was _good_ ,” he says slowly, working through it himself even as he tries to explain it to Cas. “… Different than it’s been before.” 

The alpha doesn’t speak. He just lets Dean talk, lets him ramble like his words mean something. To him, they do, and Dean knows that now. “It felt _right,_ Cas,” he says. 

It’s urgent to him that Cas doesn’t beat himself up over this, doesn’t feel like he took something away from Dean. As embarrassed as he is about begging for the alpha’s touch, he can still admit that it was helpful. That Castiel was gentle with him, kind to him, just like he always is. He can admit – maybe just to himself – that he’s _really_ fucking glad he did it. 

Cas blows a long breath out of his mouth, lips pursed. He puts his coffee down on the floor next to him. “I’ve never taken an omega down.”

“Wouldn’t know it,” Dean jokes. It sort of falls flat in the seriousness of the atmosphere. “You made me feel safe. Fuck, I mean. You blasted all the shit that was messing up my brain into the atmosphere. I haven't been that calm in…” 

His voice cracks a little, and there goes that cool and collected thing he was going for. "I don’t think I’ve ever been that calm, actually. Felt like I was high.”

Terrified of how Cas must be looking at him right now, Dean stares down at the coffee in his hands. He’s gonna show a lot of his cards with this next question. But he thinks he needs to, to convince Cas that Dean doesn’t think he’s _anything_ like the masters Dean’s had before. 

“Is that… is it _supposed_ to be like that?”

“I think so,” Cas replies, his brow furrowed. “My experience is limited with this sort of thing, but yes. I believe feelings of contentment and euphoria are fairly… typical.” The obvious question on his face goes unspoken – doesn’t Dean already know that? 

“Ain’t normal for me,” he croaks, and he hopes Cas understands. The alpha just looks at him blankly. “It’s… it’s never been like that.”

“You’ve never…”

“No.” Dean half laughs, rubbing the edge of his thumb along the seam of his pants so he doesn’t have to examine the horror blooming across Castiel’s face. “I mean. I didn’t even really know what that spot was until I was already, uh, in the trade. And, A-alastair, he–” 

His breath catches in his chest. 

He pushes past it, because Cas deserves to hear it, deserves to know that he’s _nothing_ like the alpha he seems to be afraid he is. “He just used it to hurt me. Hurt worse than anything,” he tacks on, blinking hard. 

Dean looks up, gives Cas a shaky little smile, trying his best to hold it together. If only for the alpha’s sake. “You’re the first person I’ve ever asked. The first person I… that I _wanted_ to do that with.” He feels his eyes get wet. “First time I liked it.”

And Cas seems to understand just how much that cost him to admit, because his face crumples like a wet paper bag. 

“I’m so sorry,” the alpha says, and because Dean doesn’t know if he’s talking about what’s happened to him in the past, or what he did just hours ago, he grabs the alpha’s palm in his own and holds it, resting their hands in Dean’s lap. Cas is the one blinking back tears now.

“I _trust_ you,” he repeats quietly, emphatically, and Cas’s hand tightens around his own. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t trust you. Believe me.”

“I do,” Cas says, and for a moment Dean relaxes because he thinks that it’s _finally_ sunk in. 

But the alpha swallows. Looks away. 

“I’m not worthy,” he whispers, “of your trust. I have… hurt you.”

He blinks. Cocks his head to the side. “You’ve never hurt me, Cas,” Dean corrects him slowly. The alpha doesn’t look up. “You _haven’t.”_

Before his eyes, the alpha’s shoulders tense back up, his fists clench. He looks so fucking _guilty_ when he meets Dean’s eyes. 

“Dean,” he says, taking in a breath. He speaks slowly, like he’s spelling something out. “I _have._ ”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“What I said to you in that garage,” he answers, staring at Dean like it should be obvious. But when he says nothing, Cas’s eyebrows knit together. “That was… _completely_ unacceptable.” 

Dean’s stomach does a weird little lurch that he doesn’t want to think about. His words come out oddly flat. He slowly pulls his hand away. “I deserved what you said to me. And more.”

“No, you didn’t,” the alpha growls, sitting up straighter. And, God, does _that_ fuck with Dean’s brain – it’s discordant, jarring. Like so much of what Cas does, it shakes him to his core, makes him question the way he’s looking at things. Makes him wonder if the way he rolled over with his tail between his legs and took what Cas said to him like a kick to the ribs was… 

Wrong. Makes him wonder if… _Cas_ was wrong, to say what he had. 

He feels a faint flicker of something in his gut. It takes him a while to identify it as anger.

He chucks that away like a hand grenade with no pin, because Dean does _stupid_ shit when he’s angry. He can’t afford to be stupid again so soon. Not after Cas has already forgiven him over and _over_ again for the same mistake. 

_Dean’s_ the one who fucked up, and so he _absolutely_ deserves what Cas said. Because Cas is the good guy, and if the good guy hurts you, it means you did wrong. 

And sure, it hurt. Hurt like a bitch. But Dean Winchester _knows_ that correction hurts, that learning hurts. He’s known that since he picked his baby brother up and carried him away from his burning home. 

You can’t learn a lesson without pain. And pain, he can handle.

Cas doesn’t take his silence as a good sign. “You _didn’t_ deserve it. I was cruel. And it _did_ hurt you,” Cas adds with a firm look, cutting Dean’s automatic lie off at the pass – namely, that he’s _fine,_ that he doesn’t even really _care,_ that he didn’t repeat those exact words like a broken record in his brain for hours after they got home. 

Or, at least, that every time he did, it _didn’t_ feel like a knife in the ribs. _Did you want to be hurt?_ Stab. _Did you want to be hurt?_ Stab. 

He tries to deny it, but his chest is too full of holes for him to talk. And Cas beats him to it, anyway. “I know it did.”

“Oh, come on, Cas,” he protests weakly. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. Doesn’t want to move backwards, because Cas literally just spent hours making him _forget_ this exact anxiety. “So much worse shit than that has happened to me. They’re just… words.”

Cas flinches. “Pain does not have to be physical to _hurt,”_ he says. 

Dean blinks. He knows that. Of course he fucking knows that. But if he agrees with Cas, that means he’s going to have to acknowledge that the little pit in his heart when he thinks about what Cas said to him is real. That it _matters._ That he can’t bury it and forget about it, a little paper-cut amongst huge, gaping wounds. 

Dean has been slapped. Punched. Kicked. He’s been burned, he’s been bruised. He’s been choked and stepped on and had fingers snapped, been _starved,_ has had both his shoulders dislocated multiple times, has broken every rib he’s got at some point or another. He’s been whipped. He’s been _fucked,_ fucked in every hole, fucked six ways to _Sunday_ by countless men whose sole goal was to hurt him as much as they could without actually killing him. 

_Sticks and stones,_ he thinks bitterly. And he almost opens his mouth to tell Cas so, but he doesn’t. The alpha looks at him with something dangerously close to pity, mixing in with his guilt, and Dean _hates_ that. 

“I would like to explain,” Cas starts. But he waits for permission. As usual, he _waits._

Dean makes an audible, frustrated noise. _He’s_ supposed to be apologizing for what happened back there. Not the alpha. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if Cas feels bad about what he said, because he was right to say it. 

“Cas, it doesn’t _matter.”_

“Yes,” Cas says, his tone strengthening already. “It does. And I want to.”

Dean can’t help the little laugh that leaps out of him – Cas looks up sharply. “Dude, if _anyone’s_ supposed to be apologizing, it’s me. I remembered that as soon as you helped me get my head screwed on straight and I got some friggin’ sleep. That’s why I came down here in the first place.” 

But Cas just looks alarmed _._ “Why in God’s name would _you_ apologize?”

And he asks with such ardent sincerity that Dean actually believes he doesn’t know. His stomach sinks. He’s going to have to spell this out for the alpha letter by letter, isn’t he? He’s going to have to _make_ Cas understand how bad he was, because the alpha really doesn’t have any idea. 

It’s a good thing that he doesn’t, Dean thinks. It’s just more proof that Cas is good, that he doesn’t have an innate sense of how to dominate and subjugate. That he doesn’t already know how Dean’s supposed to act. 

He never thought he’d be in a position where he’d genuinely have to explain to an alpha that a slave should follow orders. That a slave should never let anyone touch him without his master's permission. That a slave shouldn't dare to think or speak or act on his own.

But here he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Dean quite causally lists off some awful things he's been through starting at "Dean has been slapped". Just skip the paragraph and keep going if you're not interested in the nitty gritty.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers!
> 
> The holiday break here in the states is coming to an end, unfortunately. It was very restful for me mentally, and I hope it was for all y'all as well. My camping trip to the Grand Canyon was wonderful, beautiful, humbling... and absolutely freaking freezing. I just got back last night and I've never been more grateful for Texas sunshine. So I am quite physically tired. Still, I had a great time! If you've never been, carve out some time for yourself to go at some point soon. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter. A lot of you were sad about how the last one ended (though you were all, of course, wonderfully complementary and supportive!) so I hope this soothes those aches you might have been left with. Happy reading, and don't forget to let me know what you think!

Dean goes rigid. There’s no other way to describe it – Castiel can _see_ him putting on his armor, can see him try to straighten his spine and his shoulders so that he can carry the weight of the world. So he can accept blame for something that is not his fault. 

It strikes him as something Dean has done many, many times before.

 _“Don’t,”_ he pleads. There’s suddenly an _ache_ inside his chest – or maybe it isn’t sudden. Maybe it’s something that’s been living there since the moment he laid eyes on the man in front of him, and he’s only feeling it now that he’s paying attention. “You don’t need to apologize to me at all.” 

“Nah, I do,” the omega says, faux ease making his tone strangely plastic and brittle. “I fucked up. I ignored what you told me, and –” 

“I don’t _care!”_ Castiel bursts out, cutting Dean off – his mouth snaps shut, and he stares at Castiel with something close to wariness. “Dean, I could not possibly care _less_ that you ignored me. It is your _right_ to ignore me.”

Silence. And then, Dean… laughs. 

He _laughs._

“No the hell it isn’t, Cas,” he giggles. He’s _hysterical –_ his tone is not joyful in the slightest. It’s edging much closer to panic _._ “No, it _isn’t._ That’s the whole fucking point.” 

He points to his neck. Bare. Pale, where unbruised and unchafed. Such a fragile thing. “I think me getting collared again will help us both. Because neither one of us seems to be able to remember how this shit is supposed to go. Neither one of us can – can just...”

He breaks off. Hunches forward, like the world has punched him in the chest, has carved out his heart and his ability to hope for something better. The dogtags in Castiel’s pocket – the ones with _his_ name and address on them – burn against his skin.

Words crowd forward in Castiel’s mouth, pushing against each other in their need to be out in the air. He _almost_ tells Dean that he wants to free him. Almost tells him that it’s been the plan all along. He _wants_ to, has wanted to since day one.

But right now, the omega is shaking. He’s _shaking,_ barely holding on to anything concrete, barely holding himself together. Barely able to acknowledge and accept that Castiel does not _want_ to treat him the way he is, apparently, _supposed to._

He’s barely able to fathom the mere _idea_ that he doesn’t deserve to be treated that way in the first place. 

For perhaps the first time, Castiel truly understands how badly telling Dean would yank the rug out from underneath him, how quickly that would send him into a tailspin of bargaining and pleading and self-hatred. How Dean would blame himself for _not being good enough,_ even though _good_ is all he seems capable of being. And how, even though Castiel never wants Dean _anywhere_ but with him, the omega would see his freedom as little more than a dismissal. A rejection. 

Because, for better or for worse, the only value that Dean seems to be able to see in himself is what he has as a slave. He’s not ready to see his value as a _human._

So, Castiel doesn’t tell him. He doesn’t try and convince Dean to see himself as worthy of freedom and happiness. It’s something that Dean will have to understand on his own, and Castiel can only help him along – he knows that now, perhaps better than he ever has. But he does look into Dean’s eyes and say, “Slave or not, you deserve to be able to choose for yourself.”

Dean blinks, and slowly, the incredulity fades from his expression. It’s replaced by a bleak sort of pessimism, the kind that only grows from years of worst fears being confirmed. And he shakes his head. “Look what happened when I did, though,” he whispers miserably. “Look what I caused.”

What he’s implying is so far from the truth that it takes Castiel a moment to respond – and in the silence, whatever was left of Dean’s faux confidence and indifference decays. Rots. “I…” 

“Dean.” He waits until the omega makes eye contact, and holds it. Waits until he’s sure that Dean’s listening. “You didn’t ask for _anything_ that happened in that garage.”

Dean’s face crumples a bit, though he does a remarkable job at keeping his voice steady. “I mean. I did. You told me not to get out of the car, and I _knew_ it was stupid. But I d-disobeyed,” he stutters out, tripping over the word like he’s afraid to even _say_ it, “because I’m just… I’m so…” 

“You are stubborn,” Castiel finishes calmly. Dean flinches as if the word is a physical blow, but Castiel isn’t done. “And that’s not a _bad thing._ It is, in fact, unimaginably brave.” He softens. _“You_ are brave.”

And he believes those words to his core. He always has, even if Dean can’t see that. The thing inside his chest – the ache – begins to sleepily stir. 

But Dean just chokes out a miserable laugh, his composure beginning to fray in earnest. And Castiel regrets that. As much as he needs to make this clear to Dean, he hates that he also seems to be taking away the serenity that had settled on the omega’s shoulders after going down. He wishes that hormonal high could last a little longer. That Dean’s life could be uncomplicated.

 _“Brave?_ I couldn’t even… Cas, the fucking shirt he touched is balled up behind the _toilet_ because I couldn’t even _look_ at it. I couldn’t stop smelling him. I couldn’t stop closing my eyes and thinking someone else was there.” A frustrated tear streaks down his face and soaks into his shirt collar; he brushes the trail of it away with an angry gesture, like he doesn’t have _every_ right to cry, and looks away.

And his heart crumbles a little more when Dean adds, “You should be pissed. ‘Cause I… I didn’t even _try_ to stop him.” 

“Yes you did. I heard you,” Castiel corrects firmly. “You told him _no.”_

“So what?” Dean demands, shrugging harshly. “So fucking _what_ I told him no? It didn’t make a damn bit of difference. I knew it wouldn’t.”

“Then it was all the _more_ brave to do so,” he insists. “All the more brave to try and stand up for yourself, in whatever capacity you could.”

Dean closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. He doesn’t look like he believes Castiel in the slightest, and he can’t exactly blame him for that doubt. Not after what he’d said, after how he’d reacted. 

Castiel takes a deep breath. Searches for a way to make Dean understand how proud he is, how _amazed_ he is. How incredible it is that Dean, a man who has been abused in the worst ways imaginable for so much of his life, could say anything at _all_ in his own defense. He searches for a way to make Dean understand that the reason he was targeted has nothing to do with _him,_ and everything to do with the world he lives in. 

“That man was a predator.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. Of course he does – it isn’t news to Dean that there are awful people in the world. He _expects_ there to be wolves in the night, unlike Castiel, who has only just started to hear their howls. “Yeah. And I was just his fucking prey. I’m always _prey._ I hate… I hate feeling so goddamn helpless. _Weak.”_ The coffee cup in his hand is shaking so badly that the dark liquid threatens to spill out onto the carpet when he raises it to his mouth. At least Dean trusts him enough to drink it, now. 

Also unlike that first night, Castiel knows he can touch. Knows Dean will allow him to. So he wraps his hands around Dean’s, and gently supports the cup with him. The omega bites his lip, blinks harshly. Relinquishes it to him with a hitching, spasmodic movement, something painful flitting across his face. And Castiel feels that thing inside of his chest spasm, too.

“Not weak,” Castiel corrects softly, setting the mug down next to his own on the carpet. Dean tucks his hands around his ribs, taking a shallow, short breath, and leaning away like his words hurt to hear. “Not at all. How other people treat you is not your fault, Dean.”

With a whipcrack movement, Dean snaps his leg out and _kicks_ the coffee table in front of them, sending it skittering several feet across the living room. It topples over and hits the ground with a dull thud. Castiel is hardly aware of it. He only has eyes for the devastation on Dean’s face, finally bursting to the surface after his attempts to hide it away. 

“It _must be!”_ he yells out, grief in his voice and on his face; and it is an _old_ grief, a well worn grief. Something _confirmed_ by what happened in that garage, by the cruel words Castiel used. Nothing new. “It… it _has_ to be.”

He curls forward, presses his hands around his ribs like it will keep his pain inside of him. It fights its way out anyway, his words slowing as he goes like he’s already losing steam, losing the righteous anger that allowed him to speak in the first place. “I mean, come on. _You_ even said– and you’re so friggin’... so nice to me, so _good,_ and if even _you_ think that – that I _wanted–”_

“I do _not_ think that,” Castiel interrupts, panic and guilt clawing out of his mouth right along with his conviction. “I could _never.”_

Dean stares at him, taken aback. His eyes are wide. “But… but you said –”

“I,” Castiel growls, “spoke out of anger, and out of an utterly selfish desire to shirk responsibility for what happened. And that was _cruel.”_

Dean flinches, instantly opens his mouth to respond – likely to apologize _again,_ if his scent and the tilting of his chin to show his neck are anything to go by. So Castiel steamrolls forward, refuses to allow Dean to blame himself for his thoughtless words for one moment more. 

“And I lashed out because I was _terrified.”_

Dean’s mouth snaps shut at that. He stares up at Castiel, frozen, his eyes wide. Confused. Painfully so. “The thought,” Castiel grits out, “of something happening to you. Of someone _hurting_ you again. _Scared me.”_

An expression that Castiel doesn’t understand flickers across Dean’s face. “Scared?” 

He says the word like he’s testing it out, as though he never once considered it a possibility. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps the dawning comprehension on his face is a sign that he never thought that there could be any other explanation for Castiel’s behavior, that he’d truly believed it was deserved. 

“Is that so hard to believe?” Castiel asks, even though he knows that the answer, for Dean, is unquestionably _yes._

His eyes searching, Dean looks at him for a long time. And the longer he looks, the more the _hurt_ in his expression bleeds away, replaced with something that looks like naked, raw relief. “Scared. Huh. Didn’t even think about that.”

The omega blows a laugh out of his nose, wipes his face with a shaking hand. Looks across the room at the dark television, his eyes flicking around at nothing as he puts his thoughts together. Castiel dares not interrupt him. 

“I thought you… I thought you were _right.”_ He closes his eyes. Breathes slowly. “You always seem to see the truth in me even when I can’t. So I thought you must have known something I didn’t. I thought you… I thought you must have found something _ugly_ inside me.” 

He snorts, like what he just said is not devastating in every way imaginable. “Sometimes I forget you’re just… a person. That you can make mistakes too, that you can get scared even if you’re an alpha. I know that sounds stupid,” he laughs, “But...” 

A tear streaks down his face, but relief cracks Dean’s voice as he speaks. He scrubs a hand through his hair, takes a shaky breath. “But, God. You got no idea how good it feels to hear that you don’t… that you were just saying shit ‘cause you were freaking out. That you don’t _really_ think I’m a slut for suffering. ‘Cause, man, I was starting to wonder if I was.” He shakes his head. Gives Castiel a shaky, rueful smile, as if he’s apologizing for his self doubt. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, and the omega looks into his eyes without even a hint of trepidation. There was a time, not long ago, where Dean was scared to do that. “That I made you believe that for even one second...”

Dean’s expression softens. He leans over, softly bumps Castiel with his shoulder. “Fear… it does weird things to your brain. Makes you act different. I should know. You didn’t mean it.”

“But that’s...” Castiel trails off, flabbergasted by how quickly Dean has accepted this. Astounded that Dean would forgive him this easily. That he would even begin to compare their experiences, as if the terrors he has faced are in any way equal to Castiel’s fleeting ones. “It’s not an excuse. What I said to you was horrible, and I…”

Almost achingly kind, the omega gently interrupts. “I get it, Cas. It’s okay.” 

And the aching _thing_ bursts to life inside of Castiel’s chest at those words, at the gentle forgiveness on Dean’s face. It starts to _grow._

Castiel protests. Can _help_ but protest. “You have _every_ right to be furious with me.”

Dean laughs, the sound soft and breathy against the quiet of the room. Rubbing his hand on his jaw, he’s silent for a long time. Long enough that Castiel feels guilt try and make a nest inside his chest so that it can multiply. But when Dean does speak, his words are not accusatory. Not angry, not even a little. 

“When we were kids,” he starts, his eyes reflecting the low light of the lamp. “My… my little brother. Sam.”

Castiel freezes. Holds his breath. 

“He must have been – oh, what year was that? He was real young, before he even presented. He must have been nine or ten. So I’d have been about fourteen at the time.” 

Dean takes a breath. Slowly, he draws his knees up. Hugs them to his chest. For a moment, Castiel thinks he won’t go on – he starts to reach out to steady him, to ensure him that he doesn’t have to pick at this wound that has, quite clearly, hardly begun to scab over. But Dean just cocks his jaw and keeps talking, his tone even and quiet. 

“He was enrolled, for once. I was too, which was even weirder. But I was in junior high, and he was still in elementary, so we were in different buildings. My school got out, like, an hour later than his, and was just a few miles up the road, so he would always wait for me in the gym and we’d catch a city bus home together.”

Dean’s voice is steady. Quiet. If it weren’t for his scent, snapping back and forth like a flag in the wind, Castiel would not know that his words were consequential in the slightest. He crosses his arms. “That day, it was _really_ friggin’ cold. Like, frozen eyelashes cold. And Sammy, he didn’t want me to have to walk all that way to get him.”

Dean shakes his head. Smiles, though the pull of it looks a little painful. “He’d tried to tell me at breakfast that he was old enough to go home by himself, that he didn’t need me to babysit him – it was my birthday, I think that’s where he got the idea to give me a break. And hell, I mean. He probably _was_ old enough. The kid knew how to take care of himself. But the school bus couldn’t have taken him to the apartment we were renting, because it was outside of the district. I’d faked our address to get him in a _good_ elementary and not the shady one we were actually zoned for. And there was just no way in _hell_ I was letting him on a _public_ bus alone –”

He stops. Clears his throat, blushes like he’s embarrassed he’d been rambling. “Anyway. We didn’t know he was an alpha yet. Even if I had, he was too young. So I of course told him no, and didn’t think anything of it.” He shakes his head, grimaces. “But… I left school that day, hiked my ass up the road to go get him. And when I got there, he was gone.”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, and in his expression, Castiel can see the ghost of the horror he’d felt in that moment. The dread. 

“So I ask around, of course, trying to keep my cool. And a teacher tells me he got on the friggin’ _school bus,_ but I couldn’t tell her why that was bad, because she would have ratted us out to our dad, and that…” 

He trails off. Swallows. His scent pulses, ever so slightly, with fear.

Firmly, Castiel pushes away quickly simmering anger – all these little signs of abuse and mistreatment are sparking a protective sort of rage inside him. But it is a rage that Dean does not need to deal with that right now. So, instead, he tucks this away for safekeeping with all the other tidbits that Dean has dropped about his father. Castiel cannot fight his ghosts, no matter how much he wants to. 

Dean continues quietly. “So I acted like I’d just forgot he was going home that way, and then I spent… _hours._ Hours trying to find him. I looked all around the neighborhood, and then the neighborhoods outside of that – I checked home first, of course, but he wasn’t there… and it was getting dark, and I was realizing I was maybe gonna have to call the cops. Which would have been… bad.”

The omega hesitates. Flicks his eyes up to Cas, then back across the room. “Don’t want to bore you with the details,” he says quietly. “But getting CPS called on us would have been the _worst_ case scenario.”

Castiel is filled, instantly, with heart aching sympathy for Dean, for his childhood self; hardly a teenager and so clearly raising his brother as a parent. He wants to chase the leads that Dean is dropping, wants to pull at the threads of his childhood trauma – the things that, along with everything that has happened to him in the last decade, have made Dean the way he is. But the omega has been through more than enough, today. This moment is as fragile as a bird egg – he cannot risk stepping in the wrong place. 

He reaches out and holds Dean’s hand. The omega takes a quick, shuddering breath. Pushes forward, like he always does. The aching thing in his chest strains and tugs Castiel right along with him. 

“So I went to the house to call my dad so he’d come back, because even that would have been better than… than someone outside sticking their nose in. But, wouldn't you know it, that kid…” 

Dean shakes his head, fondness twisting his expression until it is painful. “I figured out later that he’d decided to go himself to try and surprise me. He got off just down the road and got on a city bus. Went uptown instead of going straight home, so he could stop at the flea market to get me a gift. He wanted to do something to celebrate, even though we didn't have any money for that shit. I _told_ him not to worry about it, but the kid could hustle, and he’d been saving up his friends' lunch money…” 

He huffs. But the fondness fades from his expression like a dimming light. “I was walking up, scared out of my mind that something had happened, scared of what my dad would say, what he’d… what he’d _do_ when he got home. And more than that, fuckin’ _terrified_ for Sammy, terrified about what might be happening to the kid. And then the little shit just comes bounding out the front door, all smiles and sunshine.” His voice tightens to the point of pain. “Not a goddamned clue what he’d put me through for the last couple’a hours. Not a _clue_ what could have happened.”

He sniffs. Wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “Cas, he was so happy. So _proud_ of himself. He thought he was helping me, thought he was being a big kid and that I’d be proud of him too.” He closes his eyes. “But I _screamed_ at him. Picked him up by his coat and shook him and yelled in his face about how stupid he’d been to do that.” His scent pulses with guilt, even all these years later. “I made him _cry.”_

He blinks, hard. “He’d bought a necklace. A little amulet – I think it was supposed to be a protection symbol, or something. I wore that thing for years. Until, um. Until...”

And he stops. There is silence in the room. A full sort of quiet, a held-breath sort of quiet. And Dean steels his jaw. Looks up at the ceiling, conviction unwavering in his green eyes. “I loved my brother. Loved him more than…” He chokes up, flinches into himself. His hand tightens around Castiel’s own. “ _Love_ him more than _anything._ And I _still_ did that to him, because he scared me. Because the thought of losing him...” 

He shakes his head, his jaw flexing. “So I don’t… I don’t blame you. I understand. Even if you don’t think I do.” The determination in his eyes is breathtaking. “I know what fear can make you do.”

Castiel carefully turns his body toward Dean, his hands in his lap. He’s crying – has been crying for a while, now, and when Dean finally looks at him he does a double take. Concern eclipses the fire in his eyes nearly instantly. “Cas?”

“I…” He clears his throat. Tries to push the words around that aching _something_ in his chest. Something that has expanded and grown so large he feels as though he will burst. He cannot begin to thank Dean for this – for his understanding, for his strength. For his seemingly endless well of kindness, all of which Castiel has done very little to deserve. 

For his trust. Because this is so, _so_ much trust.

So, instead, he just _looks_ at him, silent and tear streaked, his words too heavy with gratitude to make it out of his throat. The thing in his chest swells another inch and it feels like it could kill him.

“Would you…” Dean asks, biting his lip. A sliver of self consciousness bleeds back into his tone, but he takes a breath and shoulders forward anyway. “I mean, it would probably help if you’d. Um. If you’d s-scent me.” He flushes. “Only if you want, I mean. It’s okay if you–” 

As soon as Castiel’s arms wrap around him, Dean goes limp. Lets out a long, hitching breath. He wraps his arms around Castiel’s middle and allows him to touch and to soothe them both; to push away the last, lingering traces of that other alpha’s scent, imaginary or real. Allows Castiel to inhale against his throat and inhales against Castiel’s in turn, their jackrabbit hearts slowing until they match, the pale morning sun inching over the horizon and warming them both. 

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he whispers. “I am so, so sorry. I cannot even begin to ask for your forgiveness.”

Dean snorts, the kindest amusement Castiel has ever heard. “You’ve already got it, stupid.”

And Castiel finally identifies that aching, growing, _alive_ thing in his chest. 

It’s love.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/191827746@N07/50854697637/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEAUTIFUL fanart by CarefullyReckless!!! They put it in the comments, but I thought I'd put it at the end of the chapter as well :)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late chapter, guys! I celebrated Christmas this weekend with my family (we had to postpone for covid-esque reasons.) This one's a little all over the place, but the plot bunnies got away from me. 
> 
> And, um??? WOW??? The response to the last chapter was fucking... you guys blew me away. I've never had that many comments on a chapter, and it was so cool to see y'all enjoying my writing. I'm glad you like the direction I'm taking there! And rest assured that I will reply to all y'all's comments as soon as I get the chance. I hope you guys like this chapter too, even though it's less exciting :)
> 
> Okay, last but not least, a plug - GUYS. I read a fic that gave me so many feelings over the last week. It's called "In Through the Out Door" by sometimeswelose, and it has to be the most thorough and heartbreaking character study on Dean that I've ever read. It's finished as of today, and the lack of comments is fucking CRIMINAL. If you like whump, and you like Destiel, and you like character studies, and you LOVE writing that punches you in the HEART, please go read it and let them know what a talented author they are. I hate seeing fics that are stupidly good and have very little love. 
> 
> *Stepping down off my soap box* anyway. Enjoy this mess of a chapter!

They sit together, intertwined, for a very long time. Dean can feel the last of his anxiety falling away, can feel a weight lift off his shoulders. He feels settled. Calm. Like he can _breathe._

And Cas falls asleep. 

He crashes like a tree against Dean’s chest, and Dean just barely holds back a grunt of surprise at the sudden shift in weight. For a moment, all he can do is blink stupidly, spitting Cas’s hair out of his mouth as he supports the alpha so he doesn’t fall on his face. 

They’re chest to chest. His breathing is soft and even, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder, nose turned toward his neck. And Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t even _twitch_. He just… holds him. And for some reason, his throat tightens. His eyes sting.

 _And so what?_ he thinks defensively. So _what_ if it feels good to sit here, to keep Castiel’s warmth draped over him? So what if it feels nice to be a pillar of support? It’s something he hasn’t been in a long, _long_ time, for anybody. So he sits on the floor with the alpha practically crushing him, his weight calming rather than frightening. 

He breathes in his scent. Warm and familiar, coffee and honey and rain on the grass. The lack of grief, of _shame,_ is such a relief. The alpha smells much better like this, all soft and content. 

Dean is aware he should _maybe_ be freaking out right now. A lot has happened to him over the past few days, after all. A lot of things that have sent him into tailspin after tailspin, nosedive after nosedive. Not the least of which was the friggin’ story he just told Cas. Dean’s not even sure why he did that – why, suddenly, it was so vividly clear to him that it’s what Cas needed to hear. How he had known that he had nothing to fear now, that he really could tell the alpha about his old life. How he’s really had nothing to fear all along. 

The first time Dean had mentioned Sammy, it had been an accident. A slip of the tongue. And it had _scared_ him, had sent him into a panic spiral when he’d realized that he’d given a powerful alpha something akin to ammunition. Against him, of course, but also against his family. He’d always known that the person who owned him could find and hurt Sam, too, in more ways than one. But now he understands that those fears had been a product of his own fucked up expectations, not of anything that Cas had done or ever will do. And he has to wonder if that slip up, almost a _month_ ago now, was really his instincts trying to tell him that everything was finally okay. 

He misses Sam every time his heart beats. For years, he’s tried to shove his past life, his brother, into a safe little box, only to be pulled out when he had no other choice. No other way to keep going. But somehow, digging up that memory – a story about his brother’s kindness and stubborn love, about his own mistakes and faults – it hasn’t made it worse. It hurts like a wound, and it always will. But the ache of finally telling Castiel... it’s like stitches, instead of another slice. 

Still hurts, but at least it’s… healing. 

“Cas,” he eventually whispers, only because they can’t sit like this forever – Dean’s ass is going numb, and Cas’s back is gonna end up pretzel-shaped.

The alpha doesn’t even twitch. Dean hesitantly puts a hand on his back, rubbing up and down a few times like Cas has so often done for him. It feels strange – though maybe not as strange as it should. “Cas, come on. Wakey wakey.” 

The alpha inhales a sharp breath, motionless for a few seconds as he figures out where he is. After a long moment, Cas leans back and blinks at him blearily, and Dean can’t help the dopey smile the sight drags out. 

Cas squints at him in response, _adorably_ – and God, did Dean _really_ just think that? – confused. “I was… asleep?” he tries, voice like gravel. 

Dean huffs out a laugh, stretching out his back and shoulders until they pop. “Yeah, man. Out like a _light._ Come on.”

Gently, he urges Cas up, for once not feeling any anxiety about telling an alpha what to do. Cas follows him willingly enough, anyway – he lets Dean guide him onto the couch without a single complaint. He lands heavily, yawning, already looking like he’s going to drop back off to sleep at any moment. 

Dean turns on the TV, still tuned to the news that the alpha watches so much, and Cas doesn’t protest when he lowers the volume to almost nothing. He just scrubs a hand over his face and looks at Dean like he can’t believe he’s there. Like he’s _grateful_ he’s there. The unguarded expression is new, and raw, and vulnerable. 

Dean doesn’t really know how to handle that. It makes his stomach flutter in a way he doesn’t understand, and he avoids Cas’s gaze so the dude won’t see him blush. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s blushing. 

He sets about fixing the mess he made of the living room. Starting, of course, by righting the coffee table he toppled. He stares down at the wood with a small pang of regret. He’s starting to lose track of the number of times he’s lost his temper, of the number of times he’s blown up on Cas or things that belong to him. But the sickly shame he’s become accustomed to never hits him. 

Cas wants him to have feelings. Wants him to express them. He’d _said_ so. It’s taken Dean a long ass time to remember that, but he _had,_ all the way back at the very beginning. So Dean moves on to a stack of books that got knocked over as well, and, as he makes sense of the titles and puts them in their places, he lets his guilt go. At least for now. 

For once, Cas doesn’t say anything about him cleaning. Doesn’t tell Dean he doesn’t have to, or that he should be resting or eating or doing nothing at all. Instead, he sits heavily on the couch and watches the television blearily, his eyes mostly unfocused. His head dips every once in a while, but for some reason, he seems determined not to fall asleep. 

“You should probably, um.” Dean takes a breath. Keeps his eyes on the book in his hands as he finds the right pile, and amends what was about to be something _way_ too close to telling Cas what to do. “Maybe you could take a nap.”

He gets no answer except a low hum. It could be an agreement, or a denial. Either way, Cas doesn’t move an inch from his spot on the couch. He just turns toward him, and blinks at Dean slowly. Like a cat. He cocks his head to the side very slightly, as if to say, _really?_

Dean huffs, shakes his head. But he doesn’t push, even though he can tell Cas is beyond tired. 

It hits him with a pang that there’s a good chance that, since the day before yesterday, Cas hasn’t slept much at all. Too busy worrying. Fretting. If his insomnia had kept him up when Dean had done nothing but freak out a _little,_ he can’t imagine what it must have done to the alpha’s brain to have Dean lose it completely – three or four times in less than forty-eight hours, as a matter of fact. Not to mention coming down from the high of going alpha in the first place.

Fuck – _Dean’s_ tired, and he’d _slept._ So he knows Cas is exhausted.

Still, the alpha doesn’t relent. Stubbornly, he shifts until he’s leaning forward, his chin resting on his fist with his feet flat on the ground. And for the first time, he actively watches Dean nest, abandoning the pretense of watching the news entirely.

His gaze is intense, even with his eyes hooded. But it’s not uncomfortable, not like Dean might have thought it would be. In fact, he sort of finds solace in it. There’s a weird feeling of domesticity in the air, the warm comfort of existing in the same space as someone without feeling the pressure to interact. 

It makes him smile to himself as he slowly piles up books on bees and clouds and the mythology of angels, trying to imagine Cas’s purpose for all of these – especially now that he knows most of this information could be searched up on the internet in a snap. 

After the emotional triathlon he forced Cas into running with him, he knows the alpha is due for a little bit of scent therapy. It’s not like it’s hard to relax, to let the smell of his contentment fill the room – hell, it’s not even hard to push it out a little more intentionally. He’s more at peace right now than he’s been in a long, long time. Dean won’t flatter himself into thinking that the scent of his happiness _alone_ can finally get the alpha to relax his guard, but he thinks it can’t hurt.

Cas is knocked out completely by the time Dean starts putting books back on the shelves. Dean tries not to be too smug about it.

His head is still resting on his hand, but he’s at least leaning on the arm of the couch now. The rest of his body is curled awkwardly under him. Still upright. It doesn’t look comfortable in the slightest, but that’s Cas for you. Nags at Dean to eat and sleep all day long and then can’t even do it right himself. 

Dean swallows as he realizes, abruptly, that he’s been staring. There’s those butterflies in his gut again, their little wings kicking up clouds of an emotion that he doesn’t know how to name. 

All he knows is that it makes him edge closer, makes him kneel carefully in front of the alpha. A scant few inches from Cas’s face, he stays there for a good long while. He even leans and tips over till he’s sitting, instead of kneeling, and rests his chin on the couch cushions. 

There was a time, not long ago, when Dean thought he’d _had_ to do this. When he’d thought that the only way Cas might leave him alone is if he kneeled in front of him and sucked him off like a good little pet. Dean can _taste_ that fear, can remember exactly how sick he’d been, how terrified. How sure he’d been that Cas had bought him for the worst possible reasons. But it all feels far away from him now. 

Because, just like it had last night, this feels _right._ Dean can’t even be mad about it – it feels _good_ to be here, looking up at Cas while he’s relaxed and at ease. Dean doesn’t care that he’s on the floor, or that he’s acting all… _submissive_ again, though the thought does make him wrinkle his nose. He feels… solid. Like he has a place in the world. It’s a good feeling. He could probably close his eyes and drift off just like this. 

But, of course, he won’t. Cas still has his friggin’ _shoes_ on and he’s gonna wake up with scoliosis at this rate, and Dean can’t leave him like that in good conscience. 

He holds his breath and tries not to second guess himself as he edges back up from his place on the ground and moves Cas, gently angling him so he’s actually laying down properly. And when Cas doesn’t even twitch – _damn,_ he’s out cold – Dean feels comfortable wriggling a throw pillow under the alpha’s head as well. He retrieves and drags the blanket that Cas had given him on his first night here over him, and tucks it in carefully. All things that Cas has done for him time after time. 

All things the alpha deserves to have, too. Dean wonders when the last time was that someone bothered to take care of Cas like he takes care of Dean. He has a hunch that the answer is _never,_ or whatever’s closest. 

He sits down on the coffee table and rests next to the alpha for a while, looking at the sleeping man with a fragile sort of tenderness in his chest that, somehow, manages to outgun the anxiety he feels about taking so many liberties. It doesn’t hurt that he knows Cas _needs_ someone to look after him. Doesn’t hurt that he’s sleeping like the dead and can’t really protest, anyway. 

He’s never seen an alpha so vulnerable. Never been in a position where he didn’t feel the need to take _advantage_ of that vulnerability, if he ever did witness it. For a moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s on the floor, it doesn’t matter that he’s owned. He feels like he did a decade ago – like a _protector._ Like someone who takes care of others, not the other way around. 

The feeling only intensifies when he sees the gentle, relaxed expression on the alpha’s face, so different from his pinched and perpetual worry. He doesn’t want Cas to worry anymore. He wants to get _better._

He stands up, careful not to jostle the couch, and clicks off the television. Abruptly, he’s reminded of the way Sam used to fall asleep on him halfway through movies – and of the way he’d carry his little brother to bed and tuck him in. Dean nudges off the alpha’s shoes gently, just like he used to do for Sam, and Cas only frowns a little in his sleep before he settles back down. Dean sets them gently on the floor next to the couch, and smiles when Cas lets out a small, content sigh, nestling further into the pillow. 

He reaches over to pick up the pair of coffee cups, intent on taking them to the sink and doing the dishes, and sees a glint of silver. 

* * *

Dean sits back on the coffee table slowly, his back to Cas. Picks up the small, beaded chain and cups it in his palm. It must have fallen out of the alpha’s pocket.

There are two tags. The front one, in all capital, uniform letters, simply says _Winchester, Dean._

It is still strange to see his name on anything, let alone something meant to replace a collar. Because no matter how much like a dog Dean might be, he has never been granted even the minor dignity of bearing his _own_ name on his neck. No, the collars he’s had before had either been blank, impersonal symbols, or had been embossed with his _owner’s_ name and nothing more. Anything else relevant had been stored in the infamous, starred chip under the clasp, and the only time anyone had bothered to read _that_ was when they were selling him or catching him. 

Not this one, though. This one bears his name _first,_ and it’s only when he picks up the tag to look closer that he realizes his ID number is stamped into the back. Like it’s still less important than the name his parents gave him. His throat hurts a little when he studies it; the simple, awful _S,_ followed by a string of ten random digits that replaced his social when he sold himself. 

He swallows, and flips the tag back over.

_Winchester, Dean._

The second is a little more familiar, he supposes. _Novak, Castiel,_ takes up the whole first line, and under it, he sees Cas’s phone number. His address. 

And maybe the symbol of ownership should piss Dean off. Maybe it should make him feel small. But it doesn’t. It just makes him feel _wanted,_ as perverse and fucked up as that probably is.

Because, honestly? This collar hardly qualifies as one. It’s loose. Dean runs the length of the small, beaded chain through his fingers and knows he could hide it under clothes, knows he could snap it easily. He knows there’s no alarm, knows there’s no GPS chip. Knows he could just… take it off. If he wanted. Just like Cas said he could. 

He could escape the only tangible proof he’s a slave with nothing but a sharp tug. The thought nearly makes him laugh. And that nearly makes him sob. He’s suddenly, _fiercely_ glad that Cas didn’t give in to Dean’s fear-fueled desire for a real collar.

Gripping the chain in his hand, he bites his lip. 

There’s no reason to hesitate, because there’s _nothing_ keeping him from taking it off. Nothing. No screaming fire, no electric burn. No wards that have been specially designed to scar a slave _permanently_ for the rest of their days, with a mark that declared their disobedience to anyone who cared to look. Designed so that, no matter how far you ran, you’d always be seen as nothing more than lost property.

Some omegas, like Balthazar, were brave enough to risk it. But Dean’s never had the guts.

He _hadn’t,_ not even to run from Alastair. And it had made him stupidly easy to hunt down, the tracking information pinging clear as day to anyone with the means or influence to look. 

Civilians weren’t _supposed_ to have that info, of course. After all, the law stated that runaways needed to be apprehended by state police, disciplined, and strictly re-trained, all following rigid guidelines. No exceptions. And, a lot of the time, runaways weren’t returned to their owners at all. People who couldn’t handle their slaves didn’t get to keep them, he’d figured out. Too much risk of a rebellion, if slaves weren’t held down with an iron grip. Too much risk that one of them would get ballsy and fight _back._

Every master Dean’s ever _had_ knew that, and half the reason they tried to keep him from running was because, with enough marks on their record, they might lose the right to have slaves at all. Dean knows, with a grim sort of satisfaction, that he’d gotten more than one of his masters banned from the auctions though his persistence alone.

But, of course, there were always ways around the system. Alastair had found one. Dean’s gotta wonder if he’s the only slave Alastair’s had that tried to escape. Or, more likely, if he’s the only one the bastard _bothered_ to track down, if he was the only bitch the man put enough work into to want to keep at any cost. It makes his skin crawl. 

All it had taken, probably, was a couple of bills in the right pocket, a favor or two promised in payment, and Alastair would have been able to hunt Dean with tracking information gleaned from a black market database, while never risking that he’d lose the right to the rest of his stock by reporting him missing. 

And he _had_ hunted Dean. Caught him, and punished him, and re-formed him around his sick little rules _himself._ And he’d done it a lot better than the police or the official re-trainers ever had, because Dean had _stopped_ running. 

All because slave law and the tracking system were full of holes that no one cared enough to patch. Hell – even his old man had used that black market info, back in the day, when he stopped hunting predators and started hunting people who were already prey. Easy money.

But Dean doesn’t want to think about that. Not now, and not ever. 

He turns around and looks back at the alpha, snoring on the couch. At the soft lines of his face, at his large, warm hands, at his messy dark hair. He thinks about his gentle touch, and his stubborn kindness, and his comforting scent. 

He slips the tags over his neck, and tucks them under his shirt. 

The chain is cold, at first, but it warms up to his skin almost immediately, the soft clink of the metal somehow... comforting. Because this collar is _not_ a collar, not really. It is nothing more than security and protection, nothing more than Cas following the letter of the law as loosely as he can while still keeping them out of trouble. It is, for all intents and purposes, something _for_ Dean, not against him. 

And if there’s anyone whose name he’ll happily wear around his neck, it’s Castiel Novak’s.

* * *

Cas is still asleep when Dean’s phone beeps at him. 

This time, it’s not Balthazar. It’s Pamela, the doctor he’d seen when he’d first been brought to the alpha’s home. He hadn’t expected any kind of communication from her, not really – he’d figured that, if she wanted to see him again, she’d just ask Cas, even if she _had_ given him her number. So Dean stares at the screen a little blankly before he fumbles to unlock it, his eyes scanning over the message over and over again before it makes sense. 

> _Hey yah, kid. Balthazar let me know you’ve got a phone, now, so I thought I’d check in. Would you give me a call sometime, if you’re comfortable with that?_

He hesitates, for some reason. It’s not like Pamela had been cruel to him – far from it. She’s the nicest doctor he’s ever had, by a fucking _mile._ But thinking about his early days here, how scared he’d been… how fucking _pathetic_ he must have looked. It makes him sick with shame. 

Because Pamela had _tried_ to tell him Cas was good. She really had. He’d just been too freaked out to believe her. 

He figures that she dealt with enough of his shit for him to owe her this, at the very least. A phone call shouldn’t be making his palms sweaty, but it is. It’ll be the first he’s made since he was sixteen years old. 

He retreats to Cas’s office, curls up on the floor next to his desk in his usual spot. It feels strange to be in here without the alpha, and he hopes Cas won’t mind – it’s not like Dean is going to touch anything, or mess with his computer, but still. Before he can chicken out, he presses the little phone shaped button near her name and holds his breath while the call connects. 

It rings twice before she picks up. “Dr. Barnes,” she greets. She sounds vaguely distracted, but just as matronly as he remembers. 

“Um. Hi. It’s, uh. It’s Dean,” he stutters out. “Sorry, um. If you’re busy. I just thought –” 

“Dean!” she interrupts, sounding genuinely pleased. “I didn’t expect to hear from you right away.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “Sorry. I can, uh - I can call back?”

“No, no,” she says warmly. “I’ve got time right now, this is perfect.” There’s some shuffling on her end – Dean thinks he can hear the creak of an office chair, the rasp of paper on paper. “I just wanted to check in, maybe schedule a follow up visit for you if you’re up to it.” 

Dean’s shoulders relax minutely. “Oh. Okay.”

“How are you?” she asks warmly. “It’s been a couple months since we last spoke, I know. I didn’t intend for it to be that long, but Castiel didn’t seem to have any concerns, and things are quite busy here.” She doesn’t sound put out about it – on the contrary, Dean thinks she’s positively chipper. He can feel himself relaxing as she speaks. Maybe it’s got something to do with how she’s talking to him like a _person,_ not a thing, just like she had the first time around.

“I’m… good,” he says softly, and means it for the first time in as long as he can remember. “Really good, actually.”

“Glad to hear it,” she says, genuine warmth in her tone. “Healing up alright? How are those injuries?”

“Fine,” he says, tracing his thumb on his leg where, a few weeks ago, there’d been a nasty bruise from a cane. Hugs himself, presses his palm against his ribs, and revels in the fact that they don’t hurt. “Nothing really... There’s not really any bruises anymore. And all the bleeding stopped.”

“Good,” she says firmly. “You’ve been taking everything I prescribed, right?”

He nods, and belatedly realizes that she can’t see him. “Yes ma’am,” he confirms. 

“Oh, good lord, son,” she says, exasperated. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me that?”

He thinks he should probably be afraid of a correction like that. Thinks he might have been, only a few weeks ago. But he isn’t, not really, because even if Pamela complains to Cas, he doesn’t really think anything will come of it punishment wise – the worst he’d do is disappoint the guy. Frankly, though, that’s troubling enough as it is. So he falters for a second before he says, “Sorry,” his voice a little weaker than it should be. 

“All’s forgiven,” she says easily, and his shoulders relax. “How are your wrists? I remember those being pretty banged up.”

Dean glances down at the exposed skin above his sleeves, frowning. They’re just as red as they’d been in the dressing room a couple of days ago. Still just as obvious. And when he flexes them, they twinge a little. It’s not a pain he’s noticed before now, really. Probably because he’d been living with so much worse for so long that little things like this never even registered. His first instinct is to lie, to minimize the small sparks of pain – they don’t seem like something he has any right to complain about.

But Pamela had asked, so Dean needs to be truthful. “They’re… still pretty banged up, I guess. Not bleeding anymore, and they’re healing, but… yeah. They’re probably gonna scar,” he adds, somewhat shamefully. He feels, somehow, like he should be healing better than this, considering all the help he’s gotten. 

“I’d be shocked if they didn’t, after what I saw,” Pamela agrees, her voice a little more gentle. “Any pain?”

“A little,” he admits, grimacing. “But it’s nothin', really. Way better than it was before.”

“Well, I’d hope so,” Pamela says. She doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic. “I’ll show you some exercises you can do to help with the ache, if you’ll come pay me a visit.” 

Dean swallows. “Uh - Come to you?”

Somehow, he’d thought that Pamela was going to come _here._ But he supposes that’s wishful thinking – he knows she’s busy, and it’d be selfish to ask her to drive out to Castiel’s home to make a special home visit for him. 

The doctor obviously senses his trepidation. “Would that be your first time outside the house?”

Dean’s tone is a little more defensive than he’d like it to be. “No. I… we went out a few days ago,” he says, as if that’s really a shining example of him being able to handle himself. He figures that must mean Cas didn’t tell her – Dean remembers him saying that he talked to Balthazar about the whole thing, but he’s not sure who else knows.

She hums. “I could make a home visit, is all I meant. It’ll just be a little while before–” 

“No,” Dean says quickly. “I can - I mean. I can come up there. If Cas is okay with it.”

Pamela sounds faintly amused. “Cas?”

He blushes, suddenly glad she can’t see him. “Relax, hon,” she says easily. “I’m just glad to hear you two are more comfortable with each other.”

He blushes harder. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

“Well, alrighty then. If you’ll talk to Castiel, we can figure out when’s a good time to meet here at the facility. I just want to give you a check-up – see if everything looks okay.” She pauses. Adds, “I should also say that you don’t have to do any of that, if you don’t want to.”

Dean lets out a slow, even breath. “I know.” And he does. If Cas has proven anything, it’s that he won’t make Dean do pretty much anything. And while that had been a bewildering and, frankly, _frustrating_ thing not too long ago, he finds that he’s desperately grateful for it now. The absolute surety that he won’t be forced has done wonders to ease his mind. 

“Good,” she says, businesslike again. “You can also tell him that if you haven’t gained at least fifteen pounds, I’m tearing him a new one.”

Dean can’t help a surprised huff of laughter at that. The idea that his master could be held responsible for his weight is still very strange to him. But Dean already knows he’s healthier – knows that his hips aren’t quite as sharp as they’d been, knows he can see less of his ribs. Knows that his wrists aren’t nearly as fragile. Dean hasn’t gone hungry in weeks, not by Cas’s doing. 

“The dude feeds me like five times a day,” he says, a little half smile on his face. “Don’t think you got much to worry about there.”

“Hmph,” she intones, noncommittal, but Dean can sense that she’s mostly messing with him. “Alright. You let me know when you’d like to come up,” she says, not really asking. 

“Yes ma’am,” he can’t help but reply, feeling a little cheeky. 

Sure enough, Pamela groans. “You’re making me feel old, kid,” she complains, but Dean can hear that she’s smiling. He feels a little kernel of warmth inside of him – it’s nice to know that there are people who care for him. Nice to know there’s people he can _joke_ with. It’s been a long time since he’s felt anything like what he feels here. 

They hang up, and Dean sits against Cas’s desk for a while, feeling lighter. Cas is finally getting sleep, Dean’s made good progress on the books, and he called Pamela without too much bellyaching. He feels kinda accomplished, and maybe that’s dumb – not like those things are anything to sneeze at – but it’s still the truth. 

* * *

The feeling, along with the alpha’s nap, persists into the late afternoon, and it’s enough to convince him to make his own meal for the very first time since he arrived here. His stomach has been rumbling for a bit, now, and Pamela’s friendly threat regarding his weight doesn’t hurt. So he abandons his current stack of books in the spare room, and pads over to the kitchen, wondering how over the line he’d be to try and make the burgers Cas had talked about before everything went to shit. 

His stomach twists unreasonably when he opens the fridge, some deep-seated worry that he’ll be punished for stealing trying to crawl up his spine. But as he hesitates, he can hear Castiel’s gentle snoring in the other room, and the unease trickles away from him. Cas _told_ him he could eat. Told him he was _welcome_ to the food, whatever food he wanted. 

He’s not gonna get in trouble. He’s not. 

It’s honestly the first time he’s looked in the fridge at all, and like the rest of Castiel’s home, it’s almost painfully organized. He pulls the hamburger meat out of the drawer labeled _meats,_ pulls the lettuce and a tomato out of the drawer labeled _produce_ _._ The butter is on the top shelf in the door, and the cheese on the shelf below that. He takes note of these things, familiarizes himself with them. He realizes, belatedly, that he’s already planning on doing this again.

There was a time when Dean actually liked cooking. When he found it calming. Something he could do that he could have fun with, provided he’d had the money to pay for the ingredients. It’d been nice to have a pastime that would always be needed, something he could justify if anyone ever questioned him. It had rankled when he’d realized that cooking was an _omega_ hobby, as though his genuine love for a thing could just be boiled down to biology and nothing more. But even that hadn’t made him give it up, and he’s glad now. 

Methodically, like it _hasn’t_ been ten years since he’s done anything like this, he rifles through the cabinets and sprinkles half remembered seasonings and a diced onion into the bowl of meat, sets a pan on top of the stove carefully so that he won’t make too much noise. He finds some potatoes and chops them up, drops them in a pot of water and brings it to a boil.

Before long, the buns have been buttered and set in the oven to toast, he’s taken the finished fries out to season, the last of the patties are sizzling away, and he’s grinning to himself like an idiot. He keeps grinning as he assembles the burgers, taking maybe a weird amount of pleasure in making everything symmetrical and perfect and just _so_ on the plate.

He puts mayo on one, none on the other, and doesn’t realize why until he pauses and thinks about it. Sammy didn’t like mayo, of course. Weirdo liked his burgers dry. 

For the first time, he smiles at the memory rather than feeling hollow around it. 

Sam. Sam is making something out of himself _somewhere_ , he knows it. He _knows_ it. The kid had been too full of fire and intelligence to be anything short of amazing now. He’d been smarter than Dean by far, even as young as he’d been. That alpha fire and competitive nature had developed in him _early._ Once, he’d announced to Dean that he was going to be the president, and that Dean, of course, would be his VP. Never mind that there were hardly any omegas in _local_ government, let alone the White House. Sam hadn’t understood that – or, if he had, he hadn’t cared. 

His mouth quirks up at the memory – John hadn’t known what had hit him. A furious omega-in-denial eldest, and a rebellious alpha youngest, both sons to an inept and neglectful beta father who hadn’t been a real parent since the day their mother had died. 

His good mood fades a little with the thought of John. God, he hopes Sam got away from him as fast as he could. Without Dean there to protect him, he’s not sure what the kid’s childhood must have looked like. 

It’s nice, he thinks, that Cas knows about his brother now. It’s nice that it doesn’t scare him. Dean’s a long way from dumping his feelings all over another person if he doesn’t _have_ too, but it’s comforting to realize that, if he wanted, he could tell Cas about those fears. Could confide in him the multitude of ways in which he’s failed his brother, the ways in which their father hurt them both. 

It should surprise him that he isn’t at all concerned that Cas won’t care about that stuff. It doesn’t, though. Cas had looked… he’d looked _grateful_ this morning, when Dean had told him about Sam. So Dean knows that he’ll be glad to know more, knows that Cas cares about his past and _wants_ to know it, to get to know Dean better. 

He picks up the plates and wonders if Cas will tell him about his own past, too. 

The alpha startles awake when Dean sets the food down on the coffee table in front of him. He looks confused for a solid thirty seconds, blinking at the blanket around him and then at Dean, his eyes a little unfocused. 

“What time is it?” he finally rumbles. “How long have I been asleep?”

Dean grins at him from his seat on the coffee table. “It’s almost four, dude. You knocked the hell out.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows draw together. He rubs his face for a few seconds as he digests that. “I was… quite tired.”

“Yeah. Wonder why,” Dean says, a little sarcastic. He’s nervous, honestly, and he always gets rude when he’s nervous. He doesn’t need to be, of course. Because as soon as Cas looks up and catches sight of the food on the table, his expression blooms into something _extremely_ pleased. 

“Did you make us _lunch?”_

He’s grinning as he asks, the warm scent of _pride_ suffusing into the air, and Dean can’t help the slight blush or the gruff shrug he gives in return. “More like an early dinner,” he protests, but it’s weak at best. He’s smiling – he can feel it on his face, moving his muscles in ways that still feel slightly alien. 

Cas just smiles back at him, his hair every which way and his eyes soft, and Dean can’t help but roll his eyes so that he can squirm away from his feelings. He nudges a plate closer to the alpha, his heart fluttering. “Go on, Cas. Don’t just _look_ at it.”

Cas blinks, and, laughing a little, picks up a plate. He leans back on the couch with it and picks up the burger obligingly, taking an enthusiastic bite. 

The sound he makes is… _indecent._ His eyes close, and his face goes slack, and he chews in a way that looks almost rapturous. Dean feels his mouth water at the sight – 

Of the _burger,_ of course. Not Cas. He can feel a blush starting to crawl up his neck to the tips of his ears, and he resolutely ignores it. 

“Dean,” Cas rumbles, looking down at the burger with all the devotion of a sycophant, “this is _fantastic.”_

Dean has to clear his throat before he can speak – luckily, Cas seems too enamored with his burger to notice. “Yeah, well. I'm just happy it’s edible, after a decade without practice. Don’t have to gas me up, Cas,” he mumbles, ducking his head a little. 

Cas frowns at Dean as though he’s insane. “I’m quite serious. This is amazing. How did you learn to cook like this?”

Dean shrugs again. His cheeks probably look like fire engines, at this point – he stares down at the ground as if it will keep Cas from seeing how self-conscious he is right now. “I mean, you know. I did most of the cooking at home. Dad wasn’t… he didn’t really do anything ‘cept TV dinners, if even, and Sammy couldn’t grow up on that, so…”

Cas’s look softens into understanding. “I see.” He picks up a fry, eats it, and produces another megawatt smile. “These are delicious, as well. I never can get oven fries to come out right. How did you manage it?”

 _Jeeze,_ Dean’s face is on fire. He picks up his plate and concentrates on it so he won’t have to meet Castiel’s gaze. “I, uh. I boiled ‘em first. Helps ‘em get soft in the middle.”

“I never would have thought of that,” Cas says simply, _happily,_ like it isn’t strange at all for him to admit that Dean has done something better than he has. 

Dean spends the entire meal sitting on the coffee table. He’s not quite up to sitting _next_ to Cas, but he is happy enough to sit a _little_ higher than the ground, since he knows it’s what Cas wants him to do. And the burger _is_ good – it really is – but Dean can hardly think about that. 

Because Cas won’t shut up. He keeps showering Dean with praise as they eat, his gaze warm and happy when it hits Dean, his words bright and excited and almost too much. Dean isn’t really used to praise. It feels good, of course it does, but it almost… aches, somehow. Like he’s trying to use a muscle he forgot he had. It’s winding him up.

And if he doesn’t stop blushing, he’s gonna catch the damn house on fire. 

“Alright Cas, damn,” he finally interrupts, holding his hand up when Cas starts pontificating about his apparently _genius_ use of parmesan cheese on the french fries. “I get it, alright? It’s… I guess it’s cool that I finally got the balls to cook. But can you stop pretending it’s something to alert the media about? ‘Cause–” 

Castiel’s thumb under his chin throws him more than it probably should – after all, they’ve just spent the night doing _way_ more intimate shit than that. And he could pull away, if he wanted to. Cas isn’t holding him, isn’t forcing him. He never does. 

But Dean doesn’t really _want_ to pull away, for some reason. 

The alpha tips his head up slowly, gently, and peers into his face, appraising him silently. Dean forces himself to meet the alpha’s eyes after a beat. The dark, serious look he sees there should really make him laugh, considering the circumstances. It doesn’t, though. Instead, it makes something near his stomach tighten like a coil. 

“I’d thank you,” Cas says calmly, “not to sell yourself short.”

Dean swallows. He can’t _help_ it, not with Cas looking at him like that. Like he’s… important. His heart is beating so loudly in his chest that he’s _certain_ Cas can hear it. 

“Um,” he blurts intelligently. 

The alpha waits patiently, one dark eyebrow raising into an arch. Something in Dean’s brain short circuits at that look. He feels that coil tighten a little more. Feels an odd little _twitch,_ deep inside of him. 

“‘Kay,” he finally manages. His voice is weak. 

It seems to be what Cas was looking for, regardless – he makes a satisfied noise and nods, dropping his fingers from Dean’s chin. “Thank you for dinner,” he says simply, and Dean can only nod in a stupefied sort of way.

He takes in a somewhat shaky breath, and crams the last of his food into his mouth to cover up whatever the _fuck_ he’s feeling right now. He hardly tastes it.

Cas disappears into the kitchen to clean their dishes, and Dean wipes a hand over his face. He shakes away the weird feeling as best he can, and stands up to finish the stack of books he’d started on a few hours ago. 

And, instantly, he figures out _exactly_ what that tightening in his gut had been. 

He’s fucking _slick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I present you with not one, but TWO chapters today. Originally, they were going to be one, but the length got away from me. What can I say? I'm a sucker for that angsty introspection! 
> 
> There's some pretty heavy content warnings for this one. Dean's head is in a bad place, as many of you guessed it would be, and he deals with some traumatic memories in this chapter. There's more specific warnings in the end notes, along with my usual recommendations for what to skip. 
> 
> The next chapter is from Castiel's perspective, and is nearly double the length of this one. Consistent chapter lengths who?? Not I. 
> 
> As always, thank you all for your kind reviews. You've got no idea what it means to me to be able to read all your feedback. I know this chapter won't get many comments because it's a two-parter posted on the same day, but please! If there's anything here that jumps out to you, I'd love to hear about it :) Happy reading!

Halfway up the steps, he stumbles, trips, hits his knee _hard_ on the wooden staircase. Dean only distantly feels it – he just scrambles back up and sprints the rest of the way to the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind him and very nearly flinging himself into the shower fully clothed. As it is, he barely has the presence of mind to jam the knob over to warm _,_ can hardly get his shirt off with how hard he’s shaking. 

The spray is still cold when he gets in, but it doesn’t matter. He _needs_ a cold shower. Icy water soaks him, flattens his short hair to his head. Drips off his eyelashes, snakes down his sides and makes him shiver violently, his arms wrapping around his chest on instinct alone. He hates being cold.

There’s a trail of something wet and _warm_ dripping down the inside of his thigh. 

Slick. He’s _slick._ And he’s _hard._

_Fuck._

He wants to scream. Wants to dig his nails into his skin and tear it _off._ He’s fucking disgusting, and he _hates_ himself, hates himself, _hates himself._ One _modicum_ of kindness, an _inch_ of trust, and Dean’s stupid, traitorous, _broken_ body has to fuck everything up. He’s throwing all the nice things that Cas has done for him right back in his face, by acting like this. Dean wanted to be _good._

But he’s bad. He’s so fucking _bad._

His knees are pulled up to his chest and he’s hugging himself before he even knows he’s given up on standing, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He’s aching and he’s empty and he’s turned on and he _hates it_ because he doesn’t _understand,_ can’t wrap his mind around this at all. And the worst part is that he _wants_ to touch himself nearly as much as he _doesn’t_ want to touch himself. 

But he _can’t,_ because he’s an omega. And omegas come on a knot, _untouched,_ or they don’t come at _all,_ and even then he’s not allowed unless an alpha gives him permission, because he’s _nothing,_ he has no control, no right, and he doesn’t fucking _deserve it–_

With a sob, he realizes that the hateful, hissing voice in his head is not even _his._ It's _Alastair's._

Alastair, who had literally beaten into him that he could have no pleasure for himself. Who had whipped Dean _bloody_ the first time he’d dared to come on some random alpha’s knot without being told to do so. Dean hadn’t even meant to – he just _had,_ some betrayal of biology twisting him up a little tighter every time the alpha nailed _that_ spot inside of him, until he’d gasped and whited out and came, so out of it that he hadn’t even realized what had happened until after. 

Alastair had been _furious,_ had punished him for daring to do so, for doing anything with his body without permission. He’d seen it as a failure in his _training._ And Dean… well, Dean had almost been grateful to be hurt, that time. He’d _wanted_ to be punished for taking pleasure from something like that.

But that hadn’t been the end of it, of course. Dean hadn’t learned his lesson. Because, no matter how much he didn’t _want_ it, he was an omega, and sometimes he couldn’t _help_ it. Sometimes, the alpha using him did it in a way that wasn’t too painful, and sometimes they grabbed his dick and pumped it in time with their thrusts because they liked the way it made him tighten around them. And sometimes that was enough for his stupid body to get off. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want it, didn’t matter that he hated taking pleasure from what those alphas were doing to him. He hadn’t gotten to choose. 

His master had punished him every time. Mostly, it was just the whip, his go-to for just about everything. Rarely, when he was good and frustrated, he kicked him. But worst of all, there were times when he fucked Dean himself, so hard and fast and vicious that orgasming was the last thing on his mind, yanking on his collar until Dean was arched backwards and choking.

One time, Dean came anyway. 

It was right after one of his false heats, the drugs in his system lingering just _enough_ to push him over the edge when Alastair knotted him. And _that_ time, Alastair had gone much farther to punish him. 

He’d dragged him to a room that Dean had never been in before. Something small, and dark, far away from the beds for the customers. Slowly, almost _lovingly,_ like Dean was a prized possession, he’d tied him down in position – tightened every strap and buckle until he’d had him so firmly in place that Dean could barely breathe to beg him for forgiveness, to tell him he hadn’t meant to and he was _sorry._

For a while, he had simply trailed the tips of his fingers over Dean’s back; over his quivering arms and the insides of his thighs and between his legs, not hurting him but just touching him, _owning_ him, staking his claim like Dean could ever have forgotten who he belonged to. He’d petted Dean’s nape – the first time he’d _ever_ touched it with anything approaching kindness – and lulled Dean into a false sense of calm. 

And then Alastair had jammed a fake, vibrating, alpha _knot_ inside of him, and strapped that down too. And he’d left Dean all alone.

Dean had come so many times that, by the time his master came back, he was hoarse from screaming and dry heaving and sobbing, so exhausted that he couldn’t even _shake_ anymore, couldn’t even make his babbling, begging words coherent. Somewhere along the way, in that dark little room, his mind had snapped. He would have sold his own soul, in that moment, for even a second’s worth of freedom. 

He can remember the way Alastair had looked at him, then; the flush on his cheeks and neck, the way his eyes, black like a shark’s, had raked over him. Utterly dispassionate to his pleading, utterly voracious for his suffering. Dean had never felt more hopeless in his life. And he’s pretty sure the only reason his master eventually turned the hateful thing off and let him up was because Dean wouldn’t make any money as a brain-dead vegetable.

It’s one of the few moments where he’d had a clear, present, _tangible_ desire to die. 

Dean would absolutely have put a bullet in his own brain before going through that again. Threatened with that little room, with darkness, with that vibrating fucking _toy_ and being all alone, he’d have done _anything;_ would have rolled over for anyone, would have lain down and taken beating after beating without a word of protest or pleading, would have fucked and sucked and done whatever they’d wanted. He’d have been _happy_ to. 

And maybe Alastair had seen that. He’d never repeated the punishment. Never even threatened to. Not because he cared for Dean, of course, but because slaves with _fight_ left inside of them, slaves that could be overpowered and _forced_ because they weren’t just passive, mind broken play-things… those kinds of slaves made him more money.

And now he’s getting wet, now he’s _wanting_ things, like he’s forgotten entirely the consequences for daring to do so. 

He curls farther into himself, locks his hands behind his head and pulls at his own hair and presses his elbows together, trying desperately not to lose it completely. He makes himself inhale and exhale. Makes himself open his eyes and stare at the wet tile of the shower, makes himself watch the condensation drip down the wall so that he won’t have to see Alastair’s empty black eyes. 

He touches his own nape. Thinks about Alastair’s touch, and presses his palm over it protectively. 

But it helps, anyway – his nape doesn’t hurt anymore, and that’s a good reminder that he’s about as far away from his old master as he can get. His fingers brush the little chain of his new tags and remind him that there’s no collar there anymore, either _,_ and he grabs hold and presses them into his palm. His fist shakes against his chest.

He ain’t Alastair’s anymore. He never will be again. _Cas_ owns him, now, and Cas… He’s different. He won’t hurt Dean, won’t punish him, not even for this. He _won’t._

The raw, ugly panic he’d felt so intently when he’d realized he was slick… it fades away. His breathing slows. He’s _not_ gonna be punished. The fact swims slowly up from the depths, like a whale surfacing for air; closer and closer, until it’s so big that it’s all he can see. Cas will never do anything like that to him, not even if he does break the rules. Dean knows that. 

He’d forgotten, for a little while. But he knows. 

Uncurling, he leans back and rests on the cool wall of the shower. He grimaces when he stretches out his knee – damn, he’d hit it hard – and has to stare blankly at his crotch for a good thirty seconds before he even understands that he’s not hard anymore. 

He looks up, blinks back confused, frustrated tears, and tells himself he’s relieved. Tells himself that it’s good that the urge has passed. ‘Cause no matter how nice Cas is, Dean’s still not allowed to touch himself. That’s a cardinal fucking rule, one of the first things they beat into him at the training center, long before he ever got to Alastair and actually believed it: his body is not his own. He controls nothing, least of all things that make him feel _good._

So, probably, even _Cas_ wouldn’t want him to… to touch himself. That’s too far for a slave to go, even for an alpha as lenient as him. 

Right?

He feels nauseous when the rest of his brain flickers back online – and then he feels _guilty_. Christ. No, _not_ right. 

Cas _isn’t like that._ He’s not like any master Dean’s ever had, and he doesn’t care about what he’s _supposed_ to do. The rules are different here, because Cas cares about him – he knows that now. Believes it now. So, no – his alpha wouldn’t care at all if he…. yeah. In fact, as weird as he is, Cas might even be _happy_ if he did. He’s told him over and over again that he’s allowed to make his own choices. That he wants Dean to heal and to be happy.

It’s dizzying to consider. In such a short amount of time, Dean’s whole life has been flipped upside down. Before, any hint of pleasure, any _inkling_ of autonomy, was punished with violence and hatred. And now, he’s in a place where he not only won’t be punished, but would probably be _praised_ if he decided to take something for himself _._ His head is spinning. 

This is not a problem he ever thought he’d have. Not something he’d ever even considered that he’d have to deal with. 

He knows there are omegas out there that _like_ sex. Ones that have people who care about them. Ones that are not owned, but simply… loved. Dean just figured he’d never _be_ one of those people – figured that sex would always be too tangled up in his head with violence and fear to ever be something he actually _wanted_ , outside of a desperate, drug-induced heat. 

But, like with so many other things, Cas has shifted something inside of him that he thought was permanently rusted. And even though he’s disgusted with himself for wanting any kind of sex at all… 

If he was ever gonna want it with _anyone,_ it’d be with Cas. 

It makes sense that Dean would want him. Because, hello _,_ of _course_ he does. Cas is everything. He’s handsome, and he’s kind, and he’s _good._ He protects Dean, and he’s strong, and he’s trustworthy, and he’s… he’s friggin’ amazing. And he believes that Cas will never, ever hurt him, not even if they were to – well. Dean flushes at the thought alone.

And Dean… Dean has never had that sort of faith in anyone, before. No one else has ever even come close. He trusted his brother, of course. Trusted Bobby. But what he feels for Cas… that’s different, somehow, and he’s smart enough to know that it goes beyond simple desire. He can’t name it – or, really, he doesn’t _want_ to name it – because he’s afraid to open that door. But whatever the feeling is, it’s strong.

Face twitching into an unsteady smile, he huffs out a short laugh. Dean’s pretty sure that if he’d been a normal person instead of a slave, he’d have been barking up Cas’s tree a long time ago. Tall, dark, and a little bit scruffy; that’s, apparently, how Dean likes ‘em. 

Not that it really matters. 

His smile fades. 

Cas has already said that _he_ doesn’t want _Dean_ like that. He’s said it over and over. And Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t, because if he did, he’s had plenty of chances to do something about it.

Of course, Cas wouldn’t have forced him anyway, especially if he thought Dean was scared. But even right there at the beginning, Dean would have let him do pretty much anything. He’d have done it… if not _happily,_ then at least willingly, if it meant staying here and away from someone like Alastair. And after he’d understood that Cas really _wasn’t_ going to hurt him or send him away, he’d been more than ready to show his gratitude with his hands or his mouth or by bending over, if Cas wanted. 

But Cas has never asked for anything like that. The few times Dean, well, _offered,_ he’d made his feelings on the subject loud and clear. 

And really, that shouldn’t surprise him. It ain’t like Dean’s a catch. The years have not been kind to him. He’s used up, and he’s scarred, and he’s a step or two away from emaciated – and that’s _after_ a couple months of consistent food. Dean is broken, in every sense of the word. Cas ain’t even seen the half of it. 

The alpha could have someone whole, someone free. No one would settle for someone – some _thing,_ really – like Dean.

He hates himself for wanting anything at all, and, more than that, he hates himself for wanting someone he’s never going to be able to have.

The frustrated tears finally fall, now, and he’s glad he’s in the shower so Cas won’t be able to scent his distress. He probably reeks of it. After everything that’s happened to them over the last few days, the last thing the alpha needs to deal with is another friggin’ melt-down. Especially over something as stupid as this. He drops his head back against the tile and closes his eyes, shivering a little even under the warm spray of the shower as the last of his adrenaline leeches away. 

In its place, his chest aches. 

Cas was, what? _Nice_ to him? And Dean popped a fucking _boner_ over it.

Is he really that broken? Is he so messed up in the head that he can’t just take kindness for what it is, can’t appreciate _good_ things without wires crossing in his brain, until gestures that are platonic and innocent feel sexual? After years and _years_ of being treated like a sex toy, maybe it’s not that hard to beleive that he’s starting to think like one. To act like one. The desperate whore that Alastair always said he was, deep down.

A few months ago, Dean would have given anything to never have to think about sex again. He would have chopped off his _hand_ for the chance to go untouched for the rest of his life. He’s never… God, he can’t remember the last time he got slick _himself,_ can’t remember a time when he’s wanted anything from an alpha except distance. 

And now he’s getting twisted up over the one alpha he can actually _believe_ when he says that he won’t touch him. 

God, he doesn’t even know what did it. Doesn’t know if it was Cas’s _compliments_ that turned him on, that made him desperate, or if it was what had happened after. He can’t tell if it was the genuine delight and affection in the alpha’s voice, or if it was the thumb under his chin. The calm dominance in his gaze. 

Maybe it was both.

Either way, it’s fucking pathetic. _Sad._ The exact _opposite_ of how Dean should be, after years of getting fucked against his will. But even just thinking about the alpha, and his rumbling kind words, the dizzying warmth of his praise, and his firm but gentle touch on Dean’s face… 

Like it has learned nothing at all, his dick starts to try to twitch to attention. 

He presses his hands over his face, bites his lip so he won’t start freaking out again. He’s wet and loose and _wanting._ There’s a dull ache in his gut, twinges of desire that, in another life, might have been pleasant. 

He wants so bad to be normal. Wants to go back to being a stupid teenager, jacking off in a motel shower with the music turned up loud so Sammy won’t hear him. Wants to go back to the days where he could ride out a passing urge with his fingers, without thinking _twice_ about whether or not he was _allowed_. 

Maybe… maybe he can.

Even though that rings as false, even to himself, the thought fills him with a shaky, tentative hope. Something that doesn’t feel solid but might be enough to keep him sane. 

It seems possible that his body, now that it’s safe, is going back to his old status quo. Maybe, if he just… if he just gets it out of his system by himself, he’ll be fine, and he can go back to the way it was before. He can put those kinds of thoughts about Cas out of his mind. The alpha will never have to know that he wanted this, will never have to see.

Experimentally, he drops his hand down low, and – 

No. Nope. The pure, instinctual fear that shoots straight through his spine is enough to kill whatever’s left of his arousal. 

He… he can’t do it.

He’s scared to touch himself. 

That fear, he understands now, is something _wrong_ with him; something he’s been trained into. And that hits him like a baseball bat – shatters what is left of his composure until he’s shaking again, covering his face with his hands and curling into a little ball so he can cry like a baby.

It should make him angry, that this has been taken from him. Should make him _furious._

But it just makes him grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - 
> 
> Dean remembers past abuse at Alastair's. Specifically, he flashes back to instances of forced/unwilling orgasm, along with the punishments that Alastair inflicted on him for achieving orgasm without being directed to do so. That particular flashback includes non-consensual over-stimulation, blatant manipulation, sadism, and suicidal ideation. 
> 
> If you'd like to skip that entirely, stop reading from this sentence - "Alastair, who had literally beaten into him..." and pick up reading at this sentence - "And maybe Alastair had seen that."
> 
> Other than that, there's quite a bit of self deprecation. But that's probably par for the course, at this point...


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of this particular update, so be sure you didn't accidentally skip chapter 31! I hope the shift from Dean's perspective to Castiel's isn't too abrupt.

Dean is not in the living room when Castiel returns from washing the dishes. 

He frowns, glancing around the room before returning to the kitchen, plopping down at the table. It’s not like Dean to move about the house without telling him – even with his developing sense of freedom and independence, he’s usually careful to tell him where he intends to go. Castiel has figured that it’s his way of asking without doing so outright – voicing his intentions, in case Castiel disapproves of them. 

Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face. With Dean gone, the intoxicating scent of his contentment and comfort is no longer around to distract him. 

He… 

Castiel bites his lip, and fights down a wave of panic. 

He… loves Dean. 

It really shouldn’t surprise him, he thinks. There is nothing about Dean that isn’t deserving of love. He is kind, and brave, and selfless, and he’s beautiful inside and out. He’s strong, and that strength… it fills Castiel with longing, with something aching and wonderful and bright, every time he looks at Dean and sees it in his eyes. He doesn’t know how he could know Dean and _not_ love him – doesn’t know how anyone could. 

Castiel cannot say that he’s ever loved before. He has cared for people, yes. He loves Gabriel in a factual, familial sort of way, even with the distance between them. But he has never felt this sort of ache, before – this sort of pull. This sense that, with Dean by his side, everything in the world is just a little bit softer and brighter than before. 

Truth be told, he never thought himself capable of it. Castiel thought that he would move through his entire life in the same way: alone. He is not emotional enough, is not good with small talk or with opening up to people. He struggles to trust, struggles to let himself be vulnerable, struggles with his designation and his past and all the expectations placed on his shoulders. 

But with Dean… it feels like all the chains he’s locked around himself, all the walls he’s built up, they just fall away. Dean sees right through him. If Castiel was ever going to love someone, it would be Dean. He feels, somehow, that it’s always _been_ Dean, far before they knew each other. 

Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. 

Castiel… _cannot_ take advantage of Dean. And in this state, it would be all too easy to do so. The power balance between them could not, in fact, be more pronounced – in every conceivable way, Castiel has the upper hand. In a society that has established a rigid, and largely unquestioned, food chain, he is at the tip top, and Dean is at the very bottom. He is an alpha – controlling, dominant, aggressive – and Dean is an omega, his opposite in every way. He is healthy, in both mind and body, and Dean is not; he is _wealthy,_ and Dean is not. 

He is free. And Dean is not. 

It’s the last, more than anything, that confirms he can’t tell Dean how he feels. At the end of the day, Dean is _owned._ And while it isn’t as though Castiel _wants_ to hold his contract, it doesn’t particularly matter – the fact of it is, he does. Under the eyes of the law, he could do anything he wanted to Dean short of outright shooting him. Even then, he’d probably get away with a slap on the wrist. 

The very thought makes him ill. 

What’s really stopping him, though, isn’t what he’s allowed to do to Dean. It’s what Dean, himself, would do for Castiel. 

If he pushed, he’s fairly certain that Dean would agree to just about anything. He never intends to abuse that power. He has never _wanted_ to abuse that power. But if he were to express a preference, or frustration, or voice concerns – all things that people in relationships do on a regular basis – it’s entirely possible that Dean would bend to his will without Castiel even knowing that he was doing so. _Dean_ might not even recognize that he was doing so.

He is strong, true. But he is also fragile, in his healing state. Breakable as glass. Loyal to a fault. And if Castiel asked it of him, knowingly or not, the omega would shatter himself trying to make him happy. 

Dean will be free, one day. Hopefully, one day soon. Castiel _knows_ this, because the very idea of anything else is intolerable. The man _deserves_ freedom, deserves to be his own person and go his own way. He has more than earned it – had never deserved his fate in the first place. Castiel doesn’t need to know how Dean ended up with a collar to know that. 

And, in all of these thoughts, all of these deliberations, he hasn’t even considered the most important one up until this very moment: Whether or not Dean feels the same way about _him._

He has spent nearly an hour contemplating all the ways in which a relationship with the omega wouldn’t work out in the long term, without even considering the very real possibility that Dean would not be interested in him in the first place. 

He knows that the omega cares for him. But he also suspects that Dean, given time and sufficient cause, would care for anyone in his life in the exact same way. His soul is pure. His love, unfiltered. Castiel himself is not special – he is simply the first kind person Dean has known in far too long. The first person that Dean has had any reason to trust in years.

That doesn’t mean that Dean _loves_ him.

And – even if Dean were to echo the sentiment, Castiel cannot abide the idea that Dean would mistake trust and comfort for _love,_ simply because he has never had a chance to learn the difference. 

Worst of all, Dean has no _idea_ who Castiel is. He is in the dark, and he can’t make decisions without all the facts. 

Castiel has told him _nothing_ of his past. he knows nothing of the awful things that his family has done. Or, perhaps he does – the Morningstars are quite infamous, in the trade. But he doesn’t know that Castiel is _related_ to them, that he’s from the same stock as people who profit off of the suffering of others.

He has taken great pains to distance himself from his family, to use the money he inherited as a force for good, as a way to undermine some of the awful damage that his family has done. But it’s not enough – will never _be_ enough. 

He and Balthazar have had this argument countless times. The omega has tried, frequently, to convince him that he is not responsible for the sins of his father and his brothers, has tried to tell him that his actions _now_ are what matters. Coming from him – from someone who has been through what he’s been through, at the hands of the very same family that Castiel is so ashamed of – it should mean a great deal. Balthazar has every reason to hate him, but he’d forgiven him instead, and has been a loyal friend for years. 

So the sentiment _should_ be comforting, but Castiel knows the truth. 

He lived through the majority of his childhood happily blind. Then, when he finally grew up and _wised_ up enough to cut ties with his family, it was without the intention of doing anything about the horrible things he’d seen. It was only Balthazar stumbling into his life that opened his eyes to the possibility of making a difference with the money and influence that he had. 

If Dean knew even a fraction of the things his family has done for the slave trade – a fraction of Castiel’s cowardice – he doubts he’d want to be anywhere near him. 

Castiel should tell him. But he’s not ready. It makes him feel like a coward and a hypocrite, but it’s true all the same. Dean has only _just_ begun to feel safe here. Revealing to him that the very thing that allowed him to be hunted down like an animal was designed by _Castiel’s_ _family…_

So, no. He will not be telling Dean. Neither about his past, nor his feelings. He will continue the way he has for the last few months, and will move only with Dean’s best interests in mind. And, as soon as he can, he will tell Dean that he can earn his freedom whenever he wishes to do so. 

It doesn’t matter that Dean will likely leave his life forever, once there is nothing tethering him here. It makes his heart ache, makes the animal inside of him whine pathetically. But he’s not going to place his own selfish desires over Dean’s very _life._

He’s done quite enough of that. 

Absently, he puts his hand in his pocket, wanting to bring out the tags and examine them one last time for defects or misspellings before presenting them. He’d planned to do it this morning, once Dean had woken up, but things had not quite worked out that way. Instead, Dean had awoken from his much deserved rest in the wee hours of the morning, and comforted him, when it should have been the other way around. 

Rather than hating him, Dean had answered Castiel’s betrayal of his trust by offering even _more:_ He had told him about his brother. Opened up about his past. 

Castiel knows that’s meaningful. The first time Dean had mentioned Sam, he’d done so by complete accident, and he’d been so frightened that he’d shut down completely. But last night, he opened up all on his own, told Castiel things that he has probably never told another living soul. All in the name of assuaging his guilt. The gratitude he feels for that… he’s honestly not sure he’ll ever be able to properly express it.

He sighs rubbing his temples, those warm feelings giving way to trepidation about the tags the longer he sits here. They are a necessary evil, for now, and Castiel cannot keep stalling simply because they make him uncomfortable.

Only… the tags aren’t there. 

He frowns, paws around in his pocket for a moment until he’s sure they’re not inside. He’s certain they were before. He’d been pulling them out and fiddling with them and putting them back when he lost his nerve for hours on end, last night, before Dean had interrupted his wallowing. 

He goes into the living room, sure that they’ve fallen out on the couch while he was sleeping, but they aren’t there either. He can hear the shower shut off – that’s where Dean has gone. The omega’s abrupt departure is starting to make an awful sort of sense. 

What if he found the tags? What if he didn’t react well? Dean had asked for them, had _seemed_ to want them, but if he changed his mind… 

Cautiously, he sniffs the air, and sure enough, there _is_ a faint hint of fear scent. It’s layered under others – Dean’s cinnamon sugar contentment, his green apple pride, and something sweeter, an emotion that he doesn’t really know how to place. But the fear is clear, flashing like a neon sign in the darkness. 

Without thinking much of it, Castiel hurries up the stairs to go knock on Dean’s door and see if he’s alright. He rounds the corner, worry pulsing through him – 

And nearly smacks right into the omega, who is only just now walking out of the bathroom. 

He’s not dressed. 

The man stares up at him with wide eyes, frozen like a prey animal, a large towel slung around his shoulders. It’s big enough that it’s covering anything that might be alarming for Castiel to see, but it’s still a jolt. It’s not _normal_ for Dean to go anywhere undressed, even after a shower – he’s quite meticulous about being fully clothed when he’s out and about. Castiel can easily understand why.

All of that races through Castiel’s head, but only distantly, because he’s too busy trying to wrap his brain around what’s on Dean’s neck.

The tags are already there. If he’d been expecting anything, he _hadn’t_ been expecting that. He stares like an idiot, mouth agape, floundering for what to say. 

Abruptly, broken out of whatever state of shock he’d been in, Dean flushes bright red and drops his eyes, backing up a step. And then, just as abruptly, his knee gives way under him. With a sharp cry of pain, he collapses, hand shooting out to the counter to try and catch himself. 

Castiel lunges forward without thinking, intent on helping, but Dean flinches away from his touch like he’s wielding a red-hot iron, the blood draining from his face as he stumbles back. 

_“Don’t!”_ he cries, just one desperate syllable, but it’s enough to smack sense back into Castiel’s head; he steps back with his hands up, out of the bathroom, and looks away. It’s _his_ cheeks that are flushing now. 

“I– I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t realize you were…” 

He can hear Dean’s breathing, now – sharp and erratic, like he’s being chased. He stays crouched against the cabinet, frozen still, and it’s all Castiel can do not to pull him to his feet. But that would be a bad, _bad_ idea; Dean is one step away from being naked, and he’s vulnerable, and his scent has already sharpened with fear – 

And with pain. 

Castiel stiffens. “You – your scent,” he says, unable to finish the thought. Panic has already begun to flood his system – Castiel’s not sure he’s capable of stringing a coherent sentence together at the moment. Because right now, he’s thinking about Dean, shivering and cowering in the snow, and Dean, kneeling on the carpet with Castiel’s hands around his hidden, bleeding wrists, and Dean, flinching on the kitchen island, exposed and hurting and terrified. 

Dean doesn’t respond, just continues to breathe rapidly; panting, sharp little noises, pulled through clenched teeth. “Dean, what –”

The omega doesn’t answer his question, but he does speak – or, rather, he pleads. His voice is fragile and shaking. Terrified. “Cas – alpha – _please,_ I don’t want it. I don’t, I know it smells like I do, but I _don’t–”_

“What are you talking about?” Castiel says sharply, looking back down in spite of himself. Dean, pale as a ghost, is staring at his chest instead of his eyes, calling him _alpha_ like he had all those weeks ago, like he’s sure Castiel is one step away from grabbing him and forcing him to–

“Please,” the omega repeats, and now Castiel can see that his eyes are red from crying, can see that Dean is holding his towel around himself with two shaking hands as though he’s afraid it will be ripped away. 

He takes a larger step back, and then another, aware that Dean needs space. It pains him to do so – he wants to crouch down, to bring Dean to his chest and scent him and comfort him – but he can’t. He’s essentially cornering Dean in the bathroom, right now, and that’s not okay. He moves to the side, leaves him a path to his bedroom so that Dean can flee if he so desires. But the omega doesn’t move a muscle. Afraid to come near him?

“I don’t understand,” he says carefully, trying to hide the scent of his own anxiety so he doesn’t ramp Dean’s up any more. “What’s going on? Why are you–”

Dean makes a rough little choking noise that sends Castiel’s heart rate through the _roof._ “I– I don’t _know,_ I just – I don’t know what’s wrong with me! But, I – I know you won’t hurt me, but please, I don’t – I thought I wanted it, but I _don’t–”_

_“Why are you in pain?”_

The omega’s mouth clicks shut at his outburst. For a moment, they just breathe, staring at each other, both shaking and frightened and bewildered. 

“What?”

The word is small. Timid. Dean looks so lost, crouched on the floor like he is. So vulnerable. 

“Your scent,” Castiel repeats sharply, trying not to let his words morph into a growl. “You smell _hurt._ What happened?”

Dean blinks at him, his eyebrows drawing together slowly. “You mean you don’t… you can’t smell it?”

Castiel _does_ growl then, frustrated and upset, but Dean doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he looks shell shocked. “Of course I can! You haven’t smelled like that in so long, and I– I can’t–” 

Understanding dawns in Dean’s eyes. He sags in obvious relief, falling back so that he’s sitting on the ground rather than crouching. “Christ,” he breathes, one shaky hand coming up to cover his eyes. _“Christ,_ Cas, I thought…” 

Castiel waits, forcing himself to be patient. His hands twitch at his sides – he wants to _do_ something, wants to soothe away whatever is paining his omega. But he _can’t,_ because he isn’t sure if Dean is okay with being touched. 

“We,” he says, forcefully calm, “are obviously not on the same page.”

Dean laughs, strained. “Yeah. No shit.” 

He shifts until his left leg is poking out of the towel, and taps his knee, wincing as he does so. Castiel can see it, now – a blooming bruise, one that looks like it’s going to be nasty in the morning. “I fell on the stairs,” he explains, looking up at him. “Knocked it pretty good, and I just – I forgot about it, and it went out from under me when I stepped back. That’s all.”

Castiel searches his eyes for any hint of a lie, but he can’t find one. Dean’s scent is rapidly calming, the fear fading away; and, yes, now that he isn’t straining the injury by crouching, his pain is fading too. 

He’s so relieved that he has to sit down as well. They stare at each other, several feet away with Castiel’s back pressed into the wall of the hallway, both visibly shaken by what just happened. “Oh,” he says weakly. “Well, that’s…” 

Dean just looks at him, something tender and tired in his gaze. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Cas,” he says, apologetic. “I didn’t know that’s what you were talking about, when you were asking about my scent.”

“What the hell did you _think_ I meant?” he asks, running an agitated hand through his hair.

Dean pauses. Looks at him searchingly, _cautiously,_ as though he’s trying to figure out if it’s safe to answer – and that shouldn’t hurt Castiel, but it _does._ What in the world would Dean be so scared of that he’d revert back to how he’d been before? What would make him think Castiel would violate his wishes, or his space? “Dean–” 

“I got slick,” he blurts. 

Castiel doesn’t understand, at first – and then he does. _That’s_ what the sweet scent had been, downstairs. It’s the same one he can smell trickling out of the open bathroom door, off the clothes he can spot crumpled up in front of the shower, now that he’s not zeroed in on Dean’s pain. It’s heady, strong – fundamentally _Dean,_ and he thinks that under different circumstances, he’d have an arousal problem of his own. Right now, though, the scent of Dean’s fear and pain is cancelling out any reaction he might have to the scent of his slick. 

When he looks back to Dean, the omega is bright red.

Castiel opens his mouth to reassure Dean, only… he can’t. He seems to be at a loss for words. So Dean fills the silence for him, hitching his towel a little more securely around his shoulders as he does so, an edge of something like shame in his voice. “Don’t know why, exactly. But, uh. Yeah. I did. Downstairs. And it, well, freaked me out – surprise surprise,” he tacks on bitterly, looking down. “I thought you smelled it. Thought you’d…” 

“You thought I was going to assault you,” Castiel finishes, hollow and horrified. 

But Dean looks up at him sharply. “What? Cas, _no,”_ he scrambles to say, leaning toward him. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

The words bring him no comfort. Castiel feels nausea twist his insides as he recalls Dean’s exact words – _I don’t want it. I know you won’t hurt me, but please._

Dean had, in fact, thought Castiel might rape him. He’d just believed he’d do it _gently._

“I would never,” Castiel grits out, “touch you without your consent. _Never,_ Dean.”

Dean cocks his head to the side. “I… I know that,” he says, _bizarrely,_ because if he _did_ know that they wouldn’t be having this conversation. “But I _was_ asking you to.”

Castiel doesn’t understand a single fucking thing that Dean is saying. He’s so frustrated, so confused, and Dean must pick up on that – he bites his lip, eyes flicking around like he’s trying to figure out how to make _him_ feel better. 

This... this is his fault. He’d just wanted to stop Dean from speaking badly about himself, before, and he’d reacted without thinking – he’d let some degree of dominance, some measure of _alpha_ into his tone. Without considering the consequences. And obviously, he confused Dean. Made his body react inadvertently to alpha-omega biology that neither of them really understand.

“You said you didn’t want it,” Castiel points out, trying to stay calm. “I fail to see how that’s you asking for anything.”

Dean opens his mouth, but shuts it after a moment, genuinely perplexed. “I got slick,” he repeats, as though that should be answer enough, as though it explains literally anything at all. 

“That’s –” He pauses, takes a deep breath because he feels like he’s about to start pulling out his hair, or throwing things, or both. “That doesn’t mean anything, Dean.”

“But…” Dean trails off, blushing. He mumbles, “I got slick for _you.”_

And, God, that makes his stomach swoop. There’s a million things to unpack, there, a million different hopes and fears born all at once inside of him at those simple words. But he can’t react, not right now. This is far more important. 

“Your physical reactions,” he starts, “and your _actual_ consent are two different things, Dean. You cannot always control how your body responds to – to certain situations,” he says awkwardly, stumbling over the words, and Dean winces. “But that is not the same thing as actually wanting to do something sexual.”

Dean looks lost. “But… if I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t be, uh,” he falters for a moment, obviously searching for the right words. “I wouldn’t have gotten all, um. Worked up. Right?” 

He sounds so painfully young. And really, he is – though Dean has experienced a _lifetime_ of sexual trauma, he’s never had the chance to understand his own body. Never had the chance to make his own choices or discover what makes him happy. 

Castiel breathes in through his nose, steeling himself. “If I _had_ tried to have sex with you, just then,” he says, his voice tight, “would you have been okay with that?”

The omega flinches like Castiel hit him. “I – I don’t…” He swallows. “I know you wouldn’t, um. M-make it hurt –”

“That’s not what I asked,” Castiel interrupts sharply. “Did you desire, in that moment, to have sex? Would you have enjoyed it?”

Dean looks down at his lap, fiddling with the towel. “I…” He swallows. “I know you’d be good to me. So it ain’t nothin’ against you. But… I don’t think so,” he whispers, and God, he smells so ashamed, as though he’s admitting something awful.

“So that wouldn’t have been consensual, Dean. That would have been me _raping_ you.”

The words are harsh, but he _needs_ Dean to understand. He needs this to sink in, because this cannot be something in between them. Dean cannot grow or heal if he’s afraid that Castiel will take advantage of him. 

Dean’s lips are pressed together when he looks up, his mouth twisted to the side. “Slaves don’t get raped, Cas.” 

He’d looked young, before. Now, he looks a thousand years old. 

He doesn’t understand, at first. Of course slaves are raped – their choice is _constantly_ stripped from them. But then he gets it. 

Dean has been conditioned, for years, to believe that he _has_ no choice. That his consent is not only disregardable, but also meaningless _._ He has been told, over and over again, that he is an object, that he has no say, that he cannot be violated because he would need to have a will of his own to violate in the first place. 

“Oh, Dean,” he says softly, heart aching in his chest. “That’s not true.”

Dean scoffs, looking away from him. “I knew you… you wouldn’t think so,” he says, words sharp as broken glass. “You don’t follow the rules. But that’s how it is. I’m just a toy.” 

“You aren’t,” Castiel says. “You aren’t, Dean. You’re _human.”_

“These say different,” he replies flatly, hooking a thumb through the chain around his neck.

He must see Castiel flinch, because his voice softens. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to wear these. I _want_ to wear these,” he admits, shame sneaking into his voice. “I got no problem belonging to you, believe me – no complaints. But, Cas, even _you_ gotta know that if it was anyone else’s name on these tags, I’d have been fucked on my first day here, and every day since.”

The words are awful. So difficult to hear that Castiel wants to put his hands over his ears rather than acknowledge them. But they are also far too close to the truth. 

He leans back, looks at Dean for a moment. The omega is _tired._ Emotionally bushwacked. They both are. Neither one of them can handle a single other thing, he thinks. He stands up, walks forward, and is glad that Dean doesn’t flinch when he offers his hand. 

“Well, you aren’t a toy to me,” he says gently, and Dean’s rock-hard expression cracks. Just a little. “And that’s what matters.”

Dean’s lips give a small, grateful twitch that might be the beginnings of a smile, if it weren’t so sad. He grabs his hand and allows Castiel to pull him to his feet, wincing as he does so. Clothed in only a towel, he leans into Castiel’s side with a hiss. Even now, Dean trusts him. And that trust is a balm. 

“Is it your knee?” he asks, supporting Dean’s weight as they hobble to his bedroom.

“Mm,” Dean grunts. He avoids eye contact. “Been a minute.”

It’s been a while since he’s been in pain like this, he means. It sounds suspiciously like he’s making excuses for letting that pain show. Castiel tightens his hold, but he doesn’t say anything. 

When they finally make it to his room, they stand in front of the bed for a moment. Dean stares at the mattress like it’s a live crocodile. 

“I don’t think you should sleep on the ground, with your injury,” Castiel says softly. Dean’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s still a sore spot, obviously. “Can you sit here for a moment?”

Dean allows himself to be steered to the window seat, allows himself to be gently pushed down onto it. He looks as though he’s sitting on a bed of nails, for how comfortable he is, but he doesn’t protest. Castiel has seen him sitting here before, of course, but he has a hunch that Dean’s reluctance has more to do with his presence than his general aversion to sitting on furniture. He’s never stayed seated here for long, after all. 

“What clothing would you like?”

Dean makes a soft, plaintive noise. “Can’t you just…”

He glances up. Dean is staring down at his lap, biting the inside of his cheek. “Just gimme something?” he mumbles, and Castiel translates that to, _please pick for me so I don’t have to choose._ He thinks Dean’s had about enough of making difficult choices, today. Figures he deserves a break.

Sliding open the omega’s dresser, he fishes out a soft, long-sleeved shirt that he’s seen Dean wear quite a few times, along with a pair of boxers and pyjama pants. He adds a pair of socks for good measure. “Put those on. I’ll be right back.”

By the time he returns with a warm cup of tea, Dean is fully dressed, his towel crumpled up beside him. He is still on the window seat – though he looks incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Here. Drink that,” he orders, albeit gently. Dean looks relieved to have something to do, some direction to follow. He lifts the cup to his mouth and sips it with only a faint grimace at the taste. 

“May I propose something?” he asks after a lull of silence, and Dean glances up at him curiously, nodding. “Perhaps we could simply put the mattress on the floor?”

Dean flushes, embarrassed. “Stupid,” he mumbles, fiddling with his cup. “I know there’s nothin’ to be scared of.”

“Maybe you do when you’re awake,” Castiel says softly. “But when you’re asleep, your mind is unguarded. More susceptible.” 

The omega shrugs unhappily, but he doesn’t argue, so Castiel takes it upon himself to make the arrangements. He tugs the mattress off the bed frame and drops it to the floor, leaning the empty frame against Dean’s unused closet door carefully. Dean watches him quietly, the cup traveling to his mouth every so often. 

“Pamela texted me,” he says, while Castiel is fixing the bed covers so they’re neatly pulled back. It’s a fairly transparent excuse to get his scent on the sheets, though neither of them acknowledge it. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. She wants me to, um. Come up to your job. For a check-up, I guess. I told her I’d ask you when we could go.” 

“Well that works out well,” he says absently, picking up a pillow to fluff it (read; rub his wrists across the fabric as subtly as he can manage). “We can go tomorrow, if you’re alright with that, and her schedule is free. That way, she can look at your knee while you’re there. It’s probably just a deep bruise, but we’re better off safe than sorry.”

Dean’s quiet, at that. Castiel looks up at him from his place on the floor, leaning over Dean’s blankets and pillows as he tries desperately to make the omega comfortable again. His eye flick to Castiel's, and then away. “Will you, um. Stay with me? While we’re there?” 

He asks the question like he’s sure he’ll be mocked for it. Castiel cocks his head to the side. “Of course, Dean. Why wouldn’t I?”

Dean shrugs, looking away. He crosses his arms over his chest and picks at his sleeves. “I don’t know. You ain’t been back there in a while. I figured you’d want to check up on things, or something.”

“I’m sure I will,” he says slowly. “But you’d come with me.”

Dean relaxes, letting loose a breath. “I thought you’d wanna drop me off in that therapist’s office _stat,_ after what just happened,” he admits, flicking his eyes up sheepishly. 

Castiel’s heart twists. “While I do think it would be an _extraordinarily_ good idea for you to see Benny,” he says, and Dean grimaces, “I’ve no intention of forcing you into it before you’re ready.”

Dean laughs in the back of his throat, just once, and his obvious lack of belief stings. He looks so worn out. 

He allows Castiel to help him up and place him on the mattress with no grumbling, curling into the turned down blankets and yanking them over his head, nuzzling blatantly into the spot where Castiel’s touch had lingered the most. He looks up at Castiel through hooded eyes. Offers his hand. 

Castiel, settling down on the floor next to the bed, takes it. 

“Sorry,” Dean whispers after a while. Castiel just rubs his thumb over the omega’s palm, waiting for him to voice his thoughts. “I don’t actually think you’re a, um. A r-rapist.”

He forces the last word out like he’s unsure. Not about whether or not Castiel is one, he thinks - hopes - but about whether what might have happened could qualify as rape in the first place. He’s not about to dive back into that argument, not right now, when Dean is hanging on to his composure by a thread. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” he reassures him, squeezing his hand. And it _is_ okay, truly. Even if the way Dean had looked at him – like he was _sure_ that Castiel was going to hurt him – impacted and reverberated like a kick to the chest. The omega can’t control what he’s afraid of; it would be foolish and naive to believe that Dean knows better than that, now.

“It really ain’t,” Dean argues faintly. “I hate making you feel like a monster. Hate making you feel like you’re _anything_ like those other alphas.”

Once again, Dean has effortlessly seen through him, has burrowed down to the root of his insecurities. Castiel takes a deep breath, considering his words. “I do not like scaring you,” he finally says, not sure what else to say.

“I think I scare myself, most of the time,” Dean admits, closing his eyes. “I get all… all twisted up in my brain, till I can’t tell up from down. And I start acting like things are the same as they were before, even though I know they aren’t.”

Castiel gives in to the urge he’s been pushing away since he nearly ran into Dean, reaching down to card his fingers through his hair. Dean arches into the touch with a soft noise. “You’re making progress. You did tell me no, when you realized you didn’t want it. Would you have done that before?”

Dean opens his eyes a sliver. His pupils are round, gaze a little distant. “No. Don’t think so. It wouldn’t have done any good,” he says, voice miserably matter-of-fact. “Sometimes telling them to stop would just… would make it worse. ‘Cause I think some alphas, they like that. Forcing someone who doesn't want it.”

Castiel wants to tear each and every one of those alphas limb from limb. He _would,_ given half the chance. But right now, he can only focus on Dean. “But you said no to me.”

Dean smiles at him. The expression is tired, and a little strained. But it’s genuine. “Only ‘cause I thought you’d listen.”

Castiel has to blink back tears, at that. It’s a relief to hear. But when he opens his mouth to say something – to thank Dean, to reassure him further – the omega is already asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me in on those thoughts and feelings, dear readers...


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short lead-up chapter to our boys' visit to the rehab center. I wanted to get further than this, but the week has been crazy! The chapter afterwards is about half-way done, and I'm going to post it as soon as it's finished (probably earlier than Sunday!) :)
> 
> I am behind on replying to you guys, but as usual, I will get there eventually! Muchas gracias to all of you who leave such kind and thoughtful feedback. It really makes writing worth it - can't stress that enough. Hope you all have a fantastic week and hope you're all keeping your head up out there! Things are looking up!

Dean opens his eyes to weak morning sunlight. 

Instead of the looming form of the bed bracketing him in, separating him from the rest of the room and hiding him from the door, he’s staring straight at the window, his view unobstructed. He blinks slowly, confused as to why that is. Confused, too, about why the floor feels so soft under him. 

It takes a while for his brain to come back online. 

Right. Cas moved the mattress. Because of what happened in the bathroom, and what happened before that. 

He closes his eyes, kinda wishing he could just go back to sleep until he can stop feeling absolutely mortified. But since he doesn’t  _ actually _ want to fall into a perpetual coma, he drags himself upright. The covers slump off his shoulders and he shivers a little. He rubs at his face until he’s somewhat functional. 

It’s… nice. To be able to wake up slow. He’s still not used to that. For years, waking up has been synonymous with being afraid. With pain. With kneeling and presenting, with Alastair’s sour breath and cold black eyes and awful, decaying scent. Just another shitty day of torment – another tally mark on the wall. 

But now, he gets to… relax. Gets to inhale and smell nothing except fabric softener and the petrichor scent of Cas, still lingering in the air. 

Just a few months ago, if someone had told Dean that he’d actually be  _ able  _ to sleep with an alpha in the room – let alone would  _ want  _ to – he’d have laughed in their face. He wonders how long Cas stayed with him last night before he went to bed himself. He wonders why he keeps acting like he deserves that, and why Cas keeps humoring him. 

It had been strange, yesterday, to just… come right out and talk. To tell the alpha what had happened. But it’d been surprisingly easy, too, because he  _ trusts _ Cas. Implicitly, fully. It doesn’t seem possible, because Dean hasn’t trusted anyone like that since Sammy. But in such a short amount of time, the alpha has wormed his way into Dean’s heart. And it seems like he’s there to stay. 

Dean limps into the shower slowly, grimacing at the shooting pain in his knee, and is both relieved and mortified to see that his slick soaked clothing has disappeared. He’s got no doubt that he’ll find it washed and folded and neatly stacked on his bed soon, because Cas is efficient like that. 

He makes  _ extra _ sure not to think about how Cas might have reacted to the scent of his slick while he’s showering. The last thing he needs is a redux of yesterday’s shit show. 

It’s not like anything happened, anyway. Cas hadn’t even fucking  _ registered  _ that Dean was ten kinds of horny, because instead, he’d been concerned about him being in pain and being afraid. He furiously scrubs at his face and does  _ not  _ cry about the magnitude of that – of an alpha being repulsed by the scent of his agony, instead of excited by it. 

Dean’s not stupid. He knows that he’s had it exceptionally rough. Most alphas aren't like the ones he _serviced_ under Alastair, or even the ones he’d had before that _._ The vast majority are normal people with normal kinks and, if they aren’t exactly _nice_ to omegas, they’re at least not sadists. The people he’d been trapped with for years upon years were the worst of the worst.

But last night, most alphas – even the decent ones – would have said he was asking for it. No one would have batted an eye if Castiel had taken Dean’s arousal as enthusiastic permission to fuck him senseless. He’s just an omega, after all. A slave. And if he’s getting slick, that means he wants it, according to everything he’s ever learned. 

Cas didn’t seem to agree, though. He’d listened to Dean’s words instead of his body, and Dean’s insanely grateful for that. Now, he’s that much more comfortable here, because he knows that the alpha can and  _ will _ ignore even his most base instincts, even if Dean can’t do the same. All in the name of keeping Dean’s trust. 

Hell, he’s already taking advantage of it; normally, he picks out his clothes before he showers, so that he doesn’t have to make even the short trek back to his room in nothing but a towel. He’d been too freaked out to do so last night, but it hadn’t made a difference, in the end – Cas hadn’t done anything except blush furiously at his semi-nudity. This morning, Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist with a degree of confidence he never imagined possible. 

After much deliberation – and man, is it strange to be deliberating on something like  _ clothing _ choices, when not long ago he hadn’t owned a shred of clothing to begin with – he goes with jeans and a button-down, hoping he isn't supposed to dress up nice. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass Cas, especially in front of his employees. He even tugs on a belt, ignoring the way his skin crawls reflexively when he looks at it. 

He takes the time to dampen his hair and attempts to wrestle it into something that’s sorta presentable, rather than the chia-pet look he’s been rocking lately, and laces up his boots for the first time since Cas bought them. The shoes feel a little strange on his feet, but comforting, too – he feels more capable, somehow. Less fragile. The tags bouncing on his chest only add to that feeling of security. 

Mindful of his precarious balance, he carefully limps to the kitchen, hand gripping the banister as he goes so he doesn’t tumble down the stairs like a slinky. Cas is already up, unsurprisingly, busy making breakfast. Bacon and eggs and hashbrowns – he’s going all out, from the look of things. Dean even thinks he sees a waffle iron going. 

Dean leans against the doorway and just watches him, for a while. The alpha is so sure of himself in the way he moves, tie slung over his shoulder, black socks on his feet. There is no hesitance, no deliberation. He even has a little bounce to his step as he juggles the bacon and a second pan of potatoes, one hand on his hip and the other wielding a spatula like a specialized tool. Dean’s still not over the fact that Cas is cooking for  _ him.  _ He’s not sure he ever will be. 

When he realizes the seconds of staring have turned into minutes, he shakes himself. If he's going to move forward from what happened last night, he needs to act friggin' _normal,_ not like some kid with a crush. He straightens and speaks up. 

“Mornin’,” he greets from the doorway, a little bit sheepish, irritatingly nervous about how he looks and whether or not Cas will approve. He feels the urge in the back of his mind to kneel, because he wants the comfort of familiarity after that shit show last night, but he ain’t about to fall on his face trying to get down there. 

Cas raises his hand in greeting without looking back, concentrating hard on what he’s doing. He’s already dressed as well, his normal white shirt and blue tie ensemble comforting in its familiarity. Dean finds it a little bit funny that the alpha has dressed for work all this time, when he wasn’t even  _ going  _ to work, but at this point it’s more endearing than bizarre. 

When he does finally look up, he smiles. The expression is pleased, and genuine, and Dean feels a little buzz of satisfaction at that. Fuck his pride, or whatever – he’s happy to make the alpha happy. Makes him feel ten feet tall. 

“Good morning, Dean,” he says, glancing him up and down with a visible sort of approval that makes Dean warm. “How is your knee?”

Dean shrugs. He leans back against the kitchen table with his fingers hanging over the edge, a little bit reluctant to try and sit on his own. It’ll be one hell of a balancing act, if he manages it. “Hurts like a bitch. But it ain’t anything to be worried about, don’t think.” Frankly, it seems a little silly to Dean that they’re even still talking about it. He’s been through a hell of a lot worse. 

Cas doesn’t seem to be on the same page, though. “I think we should let Pamela be the judge of that,” he replies mildly. “I’m glad you’re dressed, at any rate, because she does indeed have a slot open today. I thought we could go after breakfast, if that’s alright with you?”

Dean shrugs again, fiddling with the last button on his shirt. “Yeah, okay.”

The alpha studies him for a moment, but if he notices Dean’s nervousness he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nods toward the coffee pot. “Help yourself, if you’d like.”

Dean  _ would _ like, surprisingly, and he only feels a tiny squirm of anxiety when he limps over and pours himself a cup. Cas nudges cream and sugar his way, gently insistent without saying a word. Dean adds them with no complaint. 

“I drank it black, as a kid,” he says randomly, staring down at the swirling, creamy brown liquid. “Thought it made me look tougher.”

Cas snorts, flipping the bacon in a methodical sort of way, one strip at a time. “I’m sure your peers were very impressed.”

Dean shrugs, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Well, not really. Didn’t really matter what I did. Nothing made any difference,” he adds, and he can tell that bums Cas out because of the way his scent gets all melancholy and the way he slows his movements. But he pushes forward – this isn’t supposed to be a sob story about his shitty childhood. “Tasted like shit, anyway. This is better.”

“You know, Balthazar drinks his coffee black as well. And his tea. I wonder if there’s a correlation,” the alpha muses, his eyes all squinty like they get when he’s thinking hard about something. 

Dean can’t help but laugh. “Dare you to ask him.” 

Cas looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Absolutely not. I would like to live to see tomorrow,” he says flatly, and it’s only because Dean’s standing so close that he can see the slight quirk to his lip, the spark in his eye that shows he’s joking. 

Dean wants to hug him. 

His hands twitch behind him on the table, enthusiastic about the idea, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want the alpha to burn anything. And he doesn’t want a repeat performance from yesterday, either. Dean’s not sure what will set him off, at this point. It feels like he’s picking his way through bear traps that he set and hid from himself. 

Cas makes him a plate, and Dean’s relieved – he was afraid that, after yesterday, he’d be expected to feed himself every time they ate. The bravery he’d dredged up to do that is nowhere near being an everyday thing, unfortunately. The alpha doesn’t seem to mind. 

He does, however, seem to mind that Dean intends to sit on the floor. Frowning as he sets the plates on the table, he eyes the tile like it’s personally offended him. “Please don’t strain your knee,” he says, as close to an order as Cas ever seems to get. Dean understands what he means – don’t kneel, and probably, don’t sit on the floor either. 

So Dean doesn’t. He stands, not quite brave enough to sit in the chair like a real boy, but smart enough to know that he isn’t going to be able to get up by himself if he makes it to the tile in the first place. Cas doesn’t exactly look pleased with his solution – he frowns again, sighing as he sits down himself – but he doesn’t argue, and Dean’s grateful. He can only handle so many new things at a time. 

They’re both about halfway through their meal before he manages to say what’s been on his mind all morning. 

“Thank you.”

Castiel pauses mid bite, looking up at him with a question on his face. “Breakfast is no trouble, Dean. I’ve said that.”

“No, I mean…” Dean bites his lip, searching for the right words. “Thanks for just… for letting me…” 

He flounders. He’s not sure how to express this feeling inside of him – this warmth. He’s just so damn grateful that he ended up here, that he’s with someone he can trust. That Cas respects him enough to let him make his own choices, even if they’re stupid ones. 

Cas’s eyes are soft, when he manages to look back up at them. “I just mean, thanks for being you, I guess,” he finishes lamely, blushing when he hears how childish he sounds. But he means it.

Cas doesn’t look like he wants to make fun of Dean, though. In fact, his face sorta screws up like he’s getting emotional, and that’s  _ not  _ what Dean was trying to do, but it’s too late. “I dislike,” he explains quietly, “that basic human decency is something you feel the need to thank me for.” 

Dean makes a frustrated noise before he can stop himself, dropping his fork on his plate. “Don’t do that,” he bites out. 

Cas is taken aback, clearly – and it’s nearly enough to make Dean backpedal and apologize. But this is important, and he needs to say it, and no amount of cowardice is going to stop him. 

“Don’t… don’t make this seem like something small,” he says, a little bit angry as he gestures at the spread in front of him, at his clothes, at the fact that he’s able to eat and stand and look him in the eye and just  _ be  _ without any fear at all. “You never let me be grateful.”

Cas opens his mouth. Closes it. “I… I just don’t want you seeing me as if I’m some sort of saint,” he explains, his voice more timid than an alpha’s has any right to be. “Just because I am treating you like you deserve to be treated–”

“You’re not listening,” Dean interrupts, almost  _ desperate  _ for Cas to understand what he means. “Like, okay, yeah. I  _ am _ thankful for the food, and the clothes, and I’m glad that you give a shit that I'm hurting. Because three months ago, ‘round this time of the morning, I was naked and cold and  _ starving,  _ and my master wasn’t happy  _ unless  _ I was in pain.” 

As he spits the words, Castiel flinches like they are physical blows, the color draining from his face – but Dean doesn’t let up, because he  _ can’t,  _ not if he wants Cas to understand. “I get that you think this is basic, Cas. But to me, and to anyone else like me? It ain’t.” 

Dean takes a breath, tries to get his beating heart under control. Cas’s scent has gone all sad and horrified, and he hates that – he didn’t want to turn a pleasant morning into a pity party. “I didn’t even mean that stuff right now, anyway,” he adds petulantly, crossing his arms.

“Then what did you mean?” Cas asks softly, and Dean can hear it – the earnest desire to know, to understand. It makes his hackles go down. 

Dean shrugs, looking away. “I meant… I meant that I’m grateful you don’t make me sit in that chair, even though we both know it’s what you want. I’m grateful you pulled the stupid mattress off the bed-frame last night instead of making me sleep up there, because you didn’t want me to have nightmares. I’m grateful you made me a breakfast you know I like because it’s gonna be a rough day, probably, and you wanted to start it off good. I’m grateful that you’re  _ nice, _ ” he stresses. 

Castiel just scoffs, like he genuinely doesn’t think that any of that impossible stuff qualifies as kindness. He  _ hates  _ that the man can’t give himself any credit. Anger seeps back into his tone as he doubles down. “Dammit, Cas, you _ are. _ You’re thoughtful. You don’t have to be – you could feed me boring, healthy oatmeal, and tell me to sit at the table like I’m supposed to, and you could  _ make _ me go to stupid friggin’ therapy _. _ And you’d still be treating me with more  _ basic human decency  _ than I’ve ever fucking had – you get that, right?” 

He glares at Cas, who is staring back at him with wide eyes as though he’s spouting ideas he’s never even considered before – and that just goes to prove his point. “But you… you do  _ better  _ than that _.  _ Above and beyond, even if you don’t think so. You let me choose, like my opinion matters. Like… like I matter.”

As usual, when it comes to the defense of anyone other than himself, the alpha manages to find his voice. “You do matter, Dean.”

Dean nods, a little harsh, because he’s still not sure he believes that – but he knows, without a doubt, that Cas does. “So then, I’m  _ gonna _ be grateful for you, and you – you can’t stop me,” he says stubbornly, hiding his hands under the table because he doesn't want Cas to see them shake. “If I matter, then… then my feelings matter, too. So take them seriously, and don’t assume I’m a kicked dog who only likes you ‘cause you kick me less. I know you better than that.” 

He looks down, abruptly running out of steam, abruptly remembering that he shouldn’t even be talking like that in the first place. The silence sits heavy between them. But he refuses to take any of it back, because he  _ means  _ it, and it’s been so long since he’s felt this passionately about anything that didn’t have to do with his own survival. So he looks up into Castiel’s eyes, and juts out his chin. “Okay?”

Cas blinks. Once, twice. His eyes are a little watery, and his scent is all over the place – confused, and a little overwhelmed, and maybe even a tiny bit pleased. “Okay, Dean,” he says softly. He sort of laughs, sniffing a little, and Dean feels his heart do a weird little flutter. “I apologize.”

It’s not the first time that Cas has said sorry to him, but it still makes him feel strange. Alphas don’t apologize, and they  _ really  _ don’t apologize to omegas. But Cas does, and he clearly means it. So Dean nods, picks his fork back up, and ignores how fast his heart is beating as he finishes his breakfast. 

* * *

Whatever bravery he’d dredged up to ream Cas out over their morning meal disappears abruptly the moment the car pulls out of the garage. 

Dean sinks down into the passenger seat, his hands gripping the armrests a little too tightly. It’s overcast – heavy, oppressive clouds hang over the road, penning him in. There’s been no fresh snow for a few days, so everything is gray and dirty. The world feels a little too cold for him to be comfortable. 

“It’s about a forty-five minute drive,” Cas says absently, flicking on his turn-signal for absolutely no one as he pulls out of his driveway. “Closer to the city, though still far enough out that there’s some decent land around the building. I wanted more of an isolated area to avoid, um. Trouble,” he finishes, clearly uncomfortable with the thought. “So far, it’s worked.”

Dean just nods. He doesn’t know where all his words went. He can feel Cas looking at him out of the corner of his eye, can picture the worried little frown pinching his face. 

There’s a click and a buzz, and then the radio is on. 

Dean doesn’t know the song. It’s some buzzy, irritating pop tune he’s never heard before, probably something that’ll be popular for a few weeks and then fade into non-existence. But he still jerks his gaze toward the stereo with wide eyes, sitting forward in his seat like it’s the first time he’s heard music in his life. 

Cas notices, because of course he does. He waves his hand at the stereo, glancing out his rearview as they pull up to a stoplight. “Feel free to change the station to your liking. I’ve never pre-programed them, if you can believe it.” 

Dean can – the dude hasn’t even bothered to decorate his house, so it tracks – but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he tentatively reaches out and taps the tune button, excitement zipping through him like he’s a kid on Christmas. 

Tap, tap, tap. He scans through Christian rock, and a cumbia or two, and a couple of talk shows. Then he lands on a familiar riff, and he freezes, his hand hovering over the stereo.

He’s twelve. In the Impala, with his dad. Dean hasn’t hit much of a growth spurt – hasn’t hit puberty. He’s not an  _ omega, _ not yet. He’s just a scrawny little kid with a spit-fire attitude and a right hook to match. His dad still loves him, he thinks, even if he’s spending more time away from home, more time drinking. Even if he’s yelling more and more, coming home later and later. Even if he’s hitting him harder than he used to, when Dean screws up. 

In the memory, his dad isn’t yelling, and he’s stone cold sober. He’s teaching Dean to drive. Too early, in most people’s opinion. But John had lived a unique lifestyle, and it’d been important to him that his eldest knew how to operate a get-away vehicle if the need ever arose. So they’d left Sammy at Bobby’s, and his dad had driven out to an old, lonely farm road, and he’d sat Dean in the front with the driver seat pulled all the way up. Dean had been nearly sick with nerves, he remembers – he’d wanted to do everything perfectly. Had wanted to make John proud, as usual. 

When his dad had popped in a cassette and turned up the speakers, Dean had practically bounced in his seat with excitement.  _ “Theme music,”  _ John had said, a gruff little smile on his face. 

Dean had eased his foot onto the gas and had probably gone a grand total of four miles an hour, but  _ Black Dog _ had made it feel like he was flying. By the time they’d gotten to  _ When the Levee Breaks,  _ Dean had been entertaining dreams of drifting around corners and kicking up gravel, on the run from whoever would be foolish enough to chase the Winchesters. 

He blinks, and he’s back in the car with Cas. 

The alpha is looking at him strangely, the beginning of a question on his face. They’re sitting still, Dean realizes – he must have pulled off on the side of the road. Probably to be sure that Dean wasn’t about to freak out. He looks down and notices that his hand is shaking; slowly, he closes it, and drops it in his lap. The song plays on, fades into silence after that last riff, and jumps straight into another that’s just as familiar; a nearly forgotten tune from a nearly forgotten life.

“Dean?”

“I knew how to drive,” he hears himself say. He’s staring at the dashboard, a weird, numb feeling in his chest. “I was pretty good, I think.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, at first. He just sits there, and he feels oddly far away from Dean – or maybe it’s Dean who feels distant, who feels like he’s surrounded by thick panes of glass. 

“Tell me about it,” the alpha says. 

So Dean does. 

“My dad, he drove this old muscle car. A Chevy Impala. Black as night, wicked fast. He took care of that car better than anything else,” he says, and it’s true. His dad had washed and buffed and tuned up that old four-door more than he’d ever checked in on his kids, more than he’d ever asked them how their days at school had been. Maybe he’d taken for granted that his kids would continue to function without his care. “He loved that thing. So I thought he’d never let me get within a foot of the driver’s seat, you know? But one day he just, he took me out into the middle of nowhere, and he taught me how to drive stick, and he…” 

His throat feels a little tight. He’s not sure why – this is a  _ good  _ memory, one of the few he has of his dad that is untainted by the fury and hatred that had, like rot, slowly overtaken the man. Feelings that had only seemed to accelerate when Dean had presented, not long after that day behind the wheel. 

“I was good,” he chokes out. “Learned real fast. He was proud of me. Even said he was.” 

He feels pathetic even saying it. 

Cas intertwines his fingers with Dean’s, his touch somehow reaching through that weird distance from before. “I’m certain it was one of many times that you made your father proud,” he says, so sure of himself that, for half a second, Dean wonders if it’s true. But he knows better. John Winchester hadn’t had much room in his heart to be proud of anyone. 

The alpha must be able to sense some of that, because he shakes his head. “And if that isn’t the case, he was a blind fool.”

Dean feels something hot behind his eyes at that. He wants to snap out a defense, like he used to as a kid – wants to tell Cas that his dad was only ever doing his best. But where Dean is today is the ultimate proof that that isn’t true, so he doesn’t bother.

“We could look into getting you a license,” Cas offers, painfully earnest.

The idea makes his chest ache with longing. What a normal, beautiful thing, to be able to get behind the wheel and have the freedom to go where he pleases, to drive fast with the windows down and his music turned up loud. 

But he knows better than to think something like that is possible. “I’m a runaway, Cas. It’ll never get approved.”

The alpha just squeezes his hand, his scent swirling with sadness a tinge of anger. For the first time, Dean wonders what his childhood might have been like with someone like Cas watching his back. Dean hadn’t had a single friend, by the end – he doesn’t count Sammy, because Sammy was obligated to him as his brother. But he thinks Cas might have been one, given the chance. 

“Don’t give up hope,” the alpha says, and it’s almost a command, his voice is so strong. 

Dean shakes himself. There’s no point in having a pity party over things like this. So much has been taken from him and done to him that it seems stupid to be upset over not being able to drive. He turns to Cas with an apologetic smile on his face. 

“Can we, uh. Leave the radio on? I promise that I won’t get all mopey every time I hear Led Zep.”

Cas doesn’t laugh. He just squeezes Dean’s hand again, and pulls back onto the road. “I wish I’d known you back then,” he says wistfully, a perfect echo of Dean’s thoughts from before. 

Dean just has to nod. “Um. Yeah,” he says, his voice only a little scratchy. “Me too. Things mighta been different, you know?”

He can tell that the alpha wants to question him. Wants to push. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares out the front window, his hand still around Dean’s, and makes a valiant attempt to lighten the mood. “I didn’t get my license until I was twenty two,” he says, a little self-deprecating smirk around the edges of his mouth. “Never was talented at driving, and before then, I’d never had a reason to learn.”

Dean can’t imagine that – can’t think of a reality in which he wouldn’t want the control of having his own transportation. “That’s sorta crazy, to me,” he admits, laughing a little. “How the hell did you get around before then?”

Cas shrugs, his eyes distant. “As a child, I had a driver. And when I left for college, there was public transportation. I did a lot of walking,” he jokes, smiling a little. 

Dean shakes his head. Somehow, he keeps forgetting that Cas grew up with money - probably because he doesn't _act_ like a pretentious douche bag. “A  _ driver.  _ Richie Rich, over here,” he mutters, though it’s good-natured. Cas rolls his eyes, and the petulant expression looks so funny on him that Dean has to laugh. 

There’s a comfortable silence between them for a while. “For all your father’s faults,” Cas says finally, something sad in his voice, “I’m glad he was there to teach you things.”

Dean can sense a whole mess of backstory behind that. Somehow, he gets the feeling that the alpha has always been lonely. He’s not sure Cas has ever felt the support and strength of a family. As fucked up as Dean’s life had been, he’d always been able to count on the love of his brother, had always felt the distant but ever present love of his adopted uncle. Sometimes, even the love of his dad. He has to wonder if Cas has ever felt anything like that.

“What was your family like, Cas?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him. 

He should have known better. Castiel stiffens, his grip going a little tight around Dean’s hand. His focus on the road seems intentional, now, like he doesn’t want to look at Dean at all, and discomfort curls into his scent like coffee that’s been in the pot too long and has gone black and burnt. 

“Never mind,” he says hastily, shaking his head. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t wanna.”

“No,” Cas interrupts. He takes a breath. “You’ve told me so much about yourself, and I haven’t returned the favor. It’s alright,” he says, his fingers still intertwined with Dean’s. He hasn’t pulled away, and that means something, Dean thinks. 

“My father was… distant. I never really knew him,” he starts, his tone strange and clinical. Dean hasn’t ever heard him like this. “I grew up away from the family estate. I think he was…” 

He trails off. Takes a breath. “My mother was an accidental conquest, I believe. An affair. I don’t actually know, because she was not around either – I was told that she passed away shortly after I was born. I think that he felt responsible for me financially because he was my sire, and because the media had gotten wind of the affair, but past that he wasn’t interested in raising me – nor was his wife, understandably. So I lived with nannies and tutors and grew up away from my half siblings.” 

Dean feels something hot in his chest. “Fuck him,” he spits, and Cas jerks his head and looks at him in surprise. “Fuck  _ that. _ He had no right to do that to you.”

There’s something soft in Castiel’s gaze that Dean is too pissed off to understand. “I was probably better off,” he says gently. “My family was… is. Not progressive. To say the least.” He sounds supremely uncomfortable. “Being raised away from them and those ideals probably kept me from becoming a much worse human being. So I suppose I’m grateful.”

Dean cocks his jaw. “Still. Bastard didn’t have a right to make you grow up alone.” He tries to imagine growing up without Sammy, and can’t. Who would Dean even be, if not for his brother?

Castiel huffs out a little laugh, at that. “I suppose not. He’s dead now, at any rate – no point in holding a grudge. My half brothers… well. One of them is decent, I suppose. We do speak, every once in a while, though it has been a long time.” He shakes his head. “The two eldest, though? I’m better off without them.” 

His tone turns dark. Angry. There are storm clouds in his eyes. “They are bad people.”

Dean feels a little shiver at that. Now  _ he’s  _ the one who wants to push,  _ he’s  _ the one who wants to pick at Castiel’s walls until they crumble so he can see what’s inside. But if Cas is going to give him the gift of privacy, the least Dean can do is return the favor. He aches for Cas, hates that he grew up without the love of a family. As shitty and messed up as Dean's was, he knows it had made all the difference.  


“Well, fuck ‘em, then,” he decides, squeezing Cas’s hand. “You’re better than them, anyway.”  


Cas gives him a weak smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. 

“I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to let me know what you think! I thrive off of validation...


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! 
> 
> Sorry this one was not out as soon as I'd hoped. I faced a HUGE stint of writer's block with it, and had kind of a troubling week besides, so it's not really up to my usual standards. I may go back later and fix this monstrosity, but I figured many of you would want to see it even if it's not quite what I want it to be yet. It's also quite a long chapter, so that may make up for some of its mediocrity. 
> 
> As usual, thank you so much to those of you who comment and let me know what you're thinking. In particular, thanks to Amuckamuckamuck for your kind reviews. They went through the fic and left a comment on every chapter, and those were amazing and uplifting to read. Thanks for keeping me motivated!

For a while, they just drive through woods and woods and  _ more _ woods, not much civilization to speak of. Dean’s even getting a little sleepy, the monotony of the trees flying past and the soothing scent of the alpha next to him lulling him into something close to a doze. 

But then, he blinks, and a little building has appeared on the side of the road up ahead. Someone’s inside. 

Cas rolls up to a guard booth. An actual, literal  _ guard booth,  _ one with a long arm that blocks the road until whoever is inside decides to move it _.  _ Dean looks around, confused – there’s no fence that he can see, so he’s not sure what would stop omegas from just sneaking around on foot if they wanted to escape. 

He’s distracted from his thoughts when the alpha rolls down the window. He expects Cas to let go of his hand – it’s sorta embarrassing to be caught like this, not to mention a little inappropriate if taken the wrong way. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look like he realizes that he should. Dean gets all warm and tingly inside at that – at the proof that Cas is not ashamed of him. 

“Good morning, Meg,” Cas greets affably. Dean leans back instinctively, hiding behind the alpha, only relaxing when he realizes that the scent of whoever is inside is safely beta. 

He peeks his head out, curious, in spite of himself. A young woman with a pixie cut is leaning out of the booth, grinning at Cas as she chews a mouthful of gum. “Well, look who the cat dragged in! How goes it, Clarence? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Castiel smiles in what appears to be a purely polite manner. “I am doing well, thank you. How are you?”

Meg shrugs. She pops her gum, leaning to the side to get a better look at Dean past Castiel – and at their clasped hands. She raises her eyebrow, lets out a low whistle. “ _ Clarence.  _ You takin’ the residents home with you, now? That’s a no-no, according to your rule book,” she chides, wagging her finger back and forth. Dean bristles at what she’s implying, ready to defend the alpha. 

“Nothing of the sort,” Cas says, calm and firm. He doesn’t sound angry, which rankles, for some reason, because Dean is starting to get good and pissed at the smug little expression on the woman’s face. Cas squeezes his hand. “I trust you would have noticed if I’d done so, anyway.” 

Ignoring him entirely, Meg leans out a little further, cupping her hand around her mouth. “Blink twice if you need help, little omega!” she whispers loudly. 

Dean shows her his teeth instead, and she grins widely. “Feisty. I like you. What’s your name?”

Cas clears his throat. “The gate, Meg? If you please.” 

Meg laughs, and leans back, waving them on through when the arm lifts up. She winks at Dean in an exaggerated sort of way when Cas pulls forward. Dean glares at her, and though he can’t hear her, he can see her mouth open in another bark of laughter. 

“I don’t like her,” he snaps, crossing his arms as Cas rolls up the window. 

Cas just chuckles, irritatingly enough. “Not many people do. She can be a bit… prickly.”

The alpha glances in his rearview mirror, sighing as the guard shack disappears around the corner. “As rough around the edges as she is, Meg  _ is  _ good at her job. There isn’t much that can slip past her, and she’s prevented more than one person with the wrong kind of agenda from getting too close.” He grimaces. “She may enjoy using her taser a little too much, to be honest.” 

It’s only then that it clicks – the gate isn’t to keep omegas  _ in. _ It's to keep other people  _ out.  _ He feels stupid for not realizing sooner, and a little guilty besides. When is he going to stop assuming that Cas is anything like the masters he has come to know? 

“You get a lot of those kinds of people?” he asks, because he really hopes the answer is no. 

Glancing at him, Cas shakes his head. “Not often. It’s usually just people who are curious, or who misunderstand and think that the omegas here are for sale.”

Dean doesn’t understand that – how else would the residents move on, after being rehabilitated? – but he doesn’t push. Instead, he glances at Cas. “Why does she call you Clarence?”

“I’m not exactly clear on that,” Cas says, shrugging. “Balthazar tells me that it has something to do with a character in a popular movie.”

Dean stares at him. “Dude. You haven’t seen  _ It’s a Wonderful Life?” _

Clearly, he has not, because he just looks at Dean blankly. “Movie night,” Dean decides, shaking his head. “We need a movie night, pronto.” 

Cas smiles at him like he doesn’t know that's supposed to be an insult about his pop culture knowledge. “Happily, Dean.” 

Something about the way he says it makes Dean’s insides go all gooey and stupid, and he forgets the weird anger he’d felt at the way Meg had looked at him and at Cas. He’s about to open his mouth and say something dumb, like,  _ “Thanks for not being ashamed of holding my hand and for wanting to watch movies with me...”  _

Then, he sees the center. 

“Whoa,” he murmurs. 

It sort of reminds Dean of a hospital. A little smaller, maybe – just two or three stories, from what he can see. But the structure itself seems to go far back into the trees, and Dean knows he’s not getting the full picture. 

They drive up closer, filing past a few dozen cars in the lot, until Cas is right up close to the front entrance. The parking space he chooses, despite being quite close to the door, is the only one empty for several rows. Dean looks at him incredulously. 

“I disagreed with having a reserved spot,” the alpha mutters, his cheeks a little pink, “but, well. A few of my employees insisted. They refuse to park here.” 

That doesn’t surprise Dean in the slightest. 

The front entry is shaded by a cover and tall trees, all warm browns and soft lines. It reminds him of an old, stately college campus, like the ones Sammy used to point out on brochures and billboards. The glass doors are tinted, preventing anyone from being able to see inside. 

“When we go in,” Cas is saying, unbuckling his seat belt, “I’m going to stop at the reception desk for my badge. You’ve got your tags, so you don’t need one, but employees and any visitors to the facility are required to wear them. It makes the residents more comfortable, we’ve found.”

Dean can only nod – he’s already starting to get overwhelmed, already starting to get quieter. Cas has jumped out of the car, though, so he follows suit before he can chicken out, timidly stepping into the cool air. He hunches a little further into the alpha’s jacket, frowning as his knee complains at him. He’d nearly forgotten about it, during the long ride.

As if he can read his mind, Cas offers him a hand – but he shakes his head. He doesn’t want these people’s first impression of him to be that he can’t even stand without an alpha’s help. Maybe that’s silly, because Cas literally  _ owns _ him, but still. His pride says no, and for once, Dean gets to listen. 

Cas frowns a little, but he doesn’t force the issue. Instead, he slows down and matches his pace to Dean’s pitiful one, worry clouding his scent. 

Dean’s so focused on not slipping and falling on his ass that they’re inside before he has time to register the doors opening, a faint beep the only indication that Cas unlocked the door with some sort of key card. More security to keep out the undesirables, he’s guessing. 

It’s a wide, open room, with tiled floors and lots of windows. There’s comfortable looking chairs scattered around, and several halls leading to wings further inside the building. Dean can see large, bold-print signs hanging above each of those halls, probably saying what each contains – but before he can investigate further, Cas starts talking to someone, and Dean realizes he’s being left behind. 

He hurries forward, glancing around with wide eyes as he stays nearly plastered to the alpha’s side. So much for maintaining his dignity. Cas is already mid conversation with the person manning the front desk, but Dean can hardly hear their words. 

He can smell  _ omegas.  _ A lot of them. The air is sweet, unlike Hell had been; there’s no sick, prolonged fear marring the scent of so many of his designation. It's strange to be around so many others like him with no fear tagging along. And as he watches, he witnesses a group of them – four slaves, all with the same silver ID tags that Dean’s currently wearing – walking out of one hall and into another. 

They’re chatting with each other. They’re laughing. They look…  _ happy.  _

Dean can only stare with wide eyes as they go, something inside of him shaken at the sight. He hasn’t seen omegas like that since high school – unafraid, their heads held high. Not even concerned about Cas, even though they can definitely smell him, can see that he’s an alpha. All four of them are young. Younger than Dean. He has to wonder where they came from, how long they suffered before they were found and brought here. 

There’s a soft touch on his arm, and he wrenches his gaze away from the retreating group. Cas is looking at him, a bit of worry creasing his brow, and Dean makes an effort to shove whatever the hell he’s feeling to the side so he can focus. 

“I was just saying,” Cas continues, his eyes lingering on Dean for a long moment before he returns his attention to the woman at the front desk, “that I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Fitzgerald.” 

Dean swallows, shaking himself, and comes back to the present. The blonde woman behind the desk has an easy smile on her face, something that immediately makes Dean feel comfortable. Unlike Meg, the woman has a matronly air about her. She’s older than Dean – older than Cas, too. He likes her immediately. 

He likes her even more when she sticks out her hand for him to shake, smiling at him with crinkled brown eyes. “Call me Bess,” she says warmly. 

Dean takes her hand in his, not an ounce of trepidation in him. It’s easier, with people like this – Bess is a beta, her scent is neutral, and she’s an older woman with gentle eyes. No one who has hurt him has looked like this. Add on to that the scent of so many content omegas, and Dean is far more at ease than he thought he would be.

“Dean,” he says, smiling a little when she shakes his hand, nice and firm. 

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” she replies, and it sounds genuine. 

“Mrs. Fitzgerald is who you want to come find if you’re ever lost,” Castiel says. “She handles the orientation tours, mans the phones, and hands out badges – among other duties she’s picked up, despite my insistence that she doesn’t overtax herself,” he adds, glancing down meaningfully. And, oh, Dean hadn’t even noticed – the woman is pregnant.

The woman just laughs, waving her hand. “You’re paying me too much to sit at this desk all day, Castiel. Plus, Garth – that’s my husband,” she explains, shaking her head in fond exasperation, “would lose his own head if I didn’t help him keep track of it. The man is drowning in paperwork.”

Castiel smiles, shrugging. “I can’t argue with that.” He turns back to Dean, filling him in without having to be asked. “Garth mans our communications and outreach. Along with Jody, he keeps an eye out for likely purchases, situations which might be worked to our advantage, and anything else that might affect what we do here. He also handles fundraisers and donations, when he isn’t busy with the library – ”

Dean’s eyes go a little wide. “You’ve got  _ donors?” _

Somehow, he’d thought that Cas’s brand of crazy was isolated. That it was a miracle in of itself that someone like him would want to help people like Dean. But the more people he meets, the more he realizes that the views Castiel holds might be more popular than he first realized. 

Cas frowns at him. “Well, yes. Of course.” He seems to sense Dean’s train of thought. “I know it may be hard to believe, Dean, but there are many people who don’t agree with the practice, and want to see it gone. More and more every day.”

Dean just blinks. He hadn’t considered that. 

Bess does them the favor of breaking the silence, her voice warm. “Well, thank goodness for that. Things will change, one day,” she says, with a degree of confidence that Dean cannot even begin to comprehend, “but in the meantime, we do what we can.”

Dean nods, a little numb. There’s something a little bit painful in his chest – he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, just yet. Instead, he reaches out below the desk, out of Bess’s line of sight, and squeezes Castiel’s warm, strong hand. 

“I wanna see your office, boss man,” he jokes, hoping his voice doesn’t come out too strained, wishing it was louder. He’s already getting overwhelmed, already wanting a moment alone, though he doesn’t want to explain that in front of a stranger. This is just… so much. 

Luckily, Cas catches his drift. He squeezes Dean’s hand in return, and nods a goodbye to Bess. “There’s an elevator down that way that goes straight to the staff office wing,” he says. “I like to keep my scent isolated, when I can.” Dean can only nod as Bess waves them away with a smile. 

He follows Cas quite a ways to the double doors, leaning against him visibly as they wait for the elevator to come. He doesn’t really care what Bess thinks of them, because right now he needs the support. He tells himself it’s because his knee is fucking killing him – and it is – but really, he just wants the familiarity and security of Cas against his skin. 

The alpha doesn’t seem to mind. “We’ve got some time before Pamela can see you,” he says. “We can simply sit and relax until then.”

Dean lets out a breath, relieved. He’d been sure that Cas would want to give him a tour of the place – and maybe he had – but the alpha, as always, is putting Dean’s desires first. “Thanks,” he breathes. The doors open, and they step inside. 

It isn’t until the doors  _ close _ that Dean realizes he’s made a mistake. 

* * *

He feels himself freeze – feels his heart stop in his chest. It’s small. Too small. He’s trapped in here and it’s too  _ small,  _ and he can’t do this, not again, he can’t be trapped like this again because he’s done with this, Cas said he was  _ done with this,  _ but there are no windows – there are never  _ windows  _ and he thought this was  _ over–  _

Cas is in front of him.

“Look at me,” the alpha commands. 

Dean jerks his head up, stares into the man’s eyes, his chest heaving. The looming walls around him fade to the background – Cas is all he can see. All he can hear. 

“We are okay, Dean. It will be over in moments. It’s just two floors, and then the doors will open, and we will walk out unharmed. We are not trapped here,” the alpha is saying, slow and measured and calm, his voice almost hypnotic. “Breathe. Now.”

Automatically, he drags in a breath, lets it out again. It’s shaky and harsh, loud in the small space. He does it again, because it clears away some of the panic in his chest. He realizes that he’s backed himself into a corner. The handrail digs into the base of his spine. He doesn’t understand how an empty elevator can be so  _ loud.  _

“Good,” Cas rumbles, still staring straight into Dean’s eyes. Somehow, his voice cuts through the din in his brain, low and intense as it is. “Good job, Dean. Keep doing that. Keep breathing.” 

Dean does, because he literally doesn’t have a single other thought left other than  _ obey obey obey, _ and when the alpha tells him he’s done a good job he feels like he can breathe correctly and he likes that feeling. 

When the doors slide open, Cas takes his hand and tugs, and they’re out. He just stands there, dazed, blinking at the bright lights glaring off the tile and at the sudden, ringing silence. The doors close behind him. 

Cas is still there, standing in front of him, his scent swirling with concern. For the first time, Dean notices his ID badge, clipped to the pocket on the front of his shirt. It’s got his picture – or, at least, a picture of him from what looks like some time ago. The Cas in the little square looks younger, somehow. There’s a large, capital  _ A  _ taking up almost half the plastic card. He feels the absurd urge to touch it. 

“Are you alright?”

Dean tries to form the words to tell him that he’s fine. He thinks he manages, at most, to shake his head  _ no. _ Cas’s frown deepens. There’s no one in the hall, though he can hear people in the rooms off to either side. In moments, they will no longer be alone, and Dean needs to get his shit together before he embarrasses himself  _ and _ Cas in front of the entire fucking rehab center. 

Problem is, he can’t seem to move.

“My office is at the end of the hall,” the alpha says quietly. “Would you like to go inside?”

Dean nods. 

Still stupified, he allows Cas to lead him all the way to the very last door. It’s separated from the rest by a dozen or so feet, like Cas wanted as much space as possible between him and the organization he runs. Dean thinks that probably means something, but he can’t really wrap his head around  _ what, _ right now. 

The first door opens up to a smaller room, with a desk that looks abandoned. Cas nods at it. “Samandrial’s desk. He’s a young beta that normally assists me with clerical work. Right now, he’s helping Jody and Garth in shifts.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything, and Cas squeezes his hand, probably realizing that he’s not really capable of computing fun facts about the rehab center at the moment. Mercifully, the alpha pushes open the next door, and shuts it behind them, and then they’re alone. 

“Dean, are you–” 

He’s slamming into Cas’s chest before he even realizes that he’s moving; Cas stumbles back with the force of it, bumping his back against the door he just closed with a small  _ oof. _ Luckily for Dean’s pride, he doesn’t say much else – he just wraps his arms around Dean and slowly slides them down to the floor so they can sit. 

Dean shoves his nose into the crook of his alpha’s shoulder, and pants in reassuring breaths. He’s trembling. It’s a long time before he can form normal thoughts again, a long time before the shaking subsides. He feels like he ran a marathon.

“Fuck,” he whispers, when he can finally talk again. 

“Was it because it was a small space?” Castiel guesses after another solid minute of holding him, his tone solemn and quiet. When he doesn’t answer right away, the alpha puts his hand on the back of Dean’s head and slides his fingers through his hair, silent and patient, his scent soothing.

Dean cocks his jaw, an angry, helpless noise clawing out of him, frustrated tears pressing at his eyes that he refuses to let out. He should really get off of Cas. Should get the hell up off the floor and stop acting like a spoiled omega brat. But he doesn’t want to, and Cas, as usual, doesn’t seem to mind.

“Had no  _ clue  _ I was afraid of that,” he chokes, ashamed of himself, ashamed that he can’t go ten minutes without an absolute freak-out. What will Cas’s employees think, if he’s spent nearly three months with the man and is still melting down over getting in an  _ elevator?  _ The last thing he wants to do is give the impression that Cas hasn’t helped him. 

“Lots of the residents are,” Cas says evenly. There’s no condemnation in his voice, nothing to suggest he thinks that Dean is being ridiculous. “That’s why we have stairs. But – your knee,” he explains, apologetic, and Dean would honestly laugh at that if he wasn’t a step away from crying. “I didn’t think, Dean. I’m sorry. I should have anticipated that it would be an issue.” 

He takes in a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “Jesus fucking  _ Christ, _ I hate this.”

Castiel hums his agreement, but he still doesn’t try and push Dean off of him. “Balthazar tells me that it’s because of the… cells. In the training facilities,” he murmurs. 

Of course. How could Dean have forgotten? It feels so long ago, those parts of his life. Those brief, desperate bids for freedom, inevitably followed by weeks of torture after they caught him. While they  _ fixed  _ him. And yeah, of course the cells had been small. Fucking kennels, really, hardly enough space to lay down and sleep – when they would  _ let _ you sleep. He remembers the choking, ugly panic at the sight of them. The stark white walls. The lights,  _ always _ on; no windows, no air. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that tracks,” he says roughly.

Cas just keeps holding him, rubbing his spine and petting his hair until the tension melts from his body. Eventually, he scoots back, his face bright red as he brings his knees to his chest – Cas lets him go without comment, studying him closely. God, he’s such a screw up. He really thought he was gonna be able to act normal, and here they are. On the floor already. 

“Thanks for – you know,” Dean says awkwardly, swallowing. “You definitely kept me from having a total melt-down, just then. In the elevator.” 

“I’m glad,” the alpha says gravely. “I do apologize for snapping directives at you like a drill sergeant, though.” His eyes search Dean’s. “I wasn’t sure how else to… reach you.”

Dean just laughs at that – at an alpha  _ apologizing  _ for telling him what to do. “It… it helped. So, you know. I’ll let it slide, this time,” he jokes, though it comes out strained, and he knows he’s probably red to the tips of his ears. 

He wonders how bad the elevator reeks of his fear. Awesome first impression he’s making here. Really fuckin’ stellar. 

But Cas doesn’t seem to get that his discomfort is directed inward – his mouth twists. “Dean, I’m sorry –” 

Dean shakes his head. “It was the right call,” he insists, suddenly very tired. 

The alpha blinks at him, obviously surprised. Maybe it’s because Dean’s not ducking anymore, not looking away. Somehow, it’s easier to get himself together when he’s doing it so he can reassure Cas that he hasn’t managed to damage him any further. As embarrassing as it is that Dean responds to… well, to  _ orders,  _ he doesn’t hold that against the alpha. He was doing that long before he presented. 

“Seriously, Cas. I trust you,” he reminds him, smiling a little in spite of the situation. The tension melts from Castiel’s shoulders at that, and he smiles back, if a little tentative.

* * *

Cas helps him to his feet, and Dean leans against the arm of the small couch in the room, finally looking around the office. The alpha draws the blinds up one by one, methodically, clearly following a ritual he’s done many times. The daylight outside pours in. It’s a beautiful view of the snow covered woods, even with the cloud cover. Dean can just see the corner of another building from where he’s leaning. 

The office, much like Castiel’s home, is sparse on the decorations. There’s a bookshelf, of course, mostly stacked with tomes on slave law. Other than his desk and the couch, there’s just a mini fridge with a small coffee machine on top that Cas is flipping on and filling up. 

There’s no pictures on the walls, nothing to indicate that Cas has anyone he cares about, or anyone that cares for him. Dean hates that, especially knowing what he knows now about Cas’s family. 

“Real cozy in here,” he jokes, trying to move on from his stupid little episode. But Cas winces. 

“I’m not… I know it seems stark,” he says, ducking his head as he pours a bottle of water into the little keurig. “I’ve just… never felt the need to decorate.”

Dean cocks his head to the side. “How long have you been doing this?”

Cas sighs. “... Six years?” he answers hesitantly, as though he’s not really sure. “Perhaps seven.”

And in all that time, the dude hasn’t even bought a potted plant to slowly kill. Dean’s gotta wonder what the hell is up with that – why the alpha seems like he’s afraid of putting down roots. 

Considering Dean owns a grand total of a dresser drawer’s worth of possessions, he’s not one to criticize. He’s been living out of a duffel bag or less for a long time, now. He gets not wanting to get too attached – he’d moved a million times as a kid, had never known when, exactly, he’d be passed along as a slave. But Cas doesn’t seem like he’s planning on going anywhere any time soon. 

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks, out of the blue. 

Cas cocks his head to the side, glancing at him. “Why do you–”

“Humor me, Cas.”

The alpha considers for a moment, his eyes going all squinty. “Perhaps… yellow?”

Dean isn’t surprised, for some reason. It’s not exactly a stereotypical  _ alpha  _ color, and maybe that’s why it suits Cas so well. He points at the couch. “So buy some yellow pillows. Get some yellow art for the walls. Hell, get a yellow coffee cup. Can’t be that hard, can it?”

Finally, the alpha seems to understand that Dean is joking – trying to lighten the mood. He cracks a smile. “I wasn’t aware you were so into interior design, Dean.” 

“Gimme a paintbrush and a canvas, and I’ll be an artist, too,” he cracks, and the guarded, self conscious tension leaves the alpha completely. 

“Oh?” he says, raising his eyebrows. He smiles as he scoots a plain white coffee cup under the spout and taps the little button on top. “And what do you charge for commissions?”

“I’m  _ very _ expensive. I work only for pie.”

Cas snorts, and just like that, the tension from the elevator has faded away. It’s so easy to be comfortable with Cas, even in a new place. So easy to joke with him. 

Dean’s missed that. He’s pretty sure he had a good sense of humor, once upon a time. Pretty sure he used to be able to make Sam laugh until he was rolling on the floor, gasping for breath with tears in his eyes. Watching Cas light up with a grin, watching him chuckle – that’s a reward he can get used to. 

He doesn’t know how he got so lucky. 

* * *

They just chill in Cas’s office for an hour or so after that, and Dean couldn’t be happier. Cas brings up a map of the center on his computer, and Dean leans against the wall and watches as the alpha explains the layout of the place. 

“Over here, you can see the residential wing. The bottom floor we keep a little more open, for quick turn-arounds – omegas that aren’t going to be long term residents, I mean. Jody usually assigns them a roommate that they stick with, and that seems to help them get settled faster. We have two staff members who live there full time, as well, to help keep everyone comfortable. Now, the upper floors, those are generally for omegas who are going to need a little more time…” 

Dean lets the alpha ramble on, a slight smile on his face. It’s nice to see Cas here, doing something he’s obviously passionate about. It’s obvious that a lot of time, thought, and effort have gone into this facility. Not to mention a hell of a lot of money. He wonders, again, where all that dough came from. 

“Balthazar told me that you teach self defense here,” he interrupts, eyeing a corner of the map that says _ Gym/Rec.  _ “That true?”

Cas nods, glancing up at him curiously. “We find it’s… necessary. And helpful, in more ways than one. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

Dean shrugs, suddenly a little uncomfortable. He knew how to fight, once upon a time, but he’s not sure he’d be able to now. It’s been a long time since he’s thrown a punch. The punishment for injuring a free person was worse than for running away, and Dean hadn’t really needed to be taught that lesson more than once – especially since he’d very quickly found out that, as satisfying as it might be to knock an alpha’s teeth out, there would always be another one behind him who liked the  _ challenge _ of an unruly slave. 

And that’s what Dean had been, he’s starting to realize. A challenge – to bend, to train, to break. He doesn’t regret the fights he put up against his masters, but he has to wonder if he’d have ended up with someone as sick as Alastair if he’d stayed on the straight and narrow. 

If he’d... given in earlier. 

So, no. He’s not really sure he wants permission to fight. He’s not sure he can afford it, somehow. Dean is as soft as he’s ever been, with Cas, and a part of him is afraid that if he remembers how to be  _ mean, _ he’s so brittle that he’ll shatter. 

“Not sure I could punch my way out of a wet paper sack,” he jokes, to lighten the tension that’s started to grow in the air. “Not with these toothpick arms.”

Cas gives him an unimpressed look. “I find that hard to believe.” 

Dean is saved from having to respond to that by Pamela calling and telling Cas she’s ready, and as the alpha hooks the phone back into its cradle on the wall, Dean is already steeling himself to get back in the stupid little death box. He’s gonna take it like a man, this time, not like a sniveling little bitch, and Cas seems to sense the shift in his attitude because he looks at him cautiously. “We don’t have to take the elevator,” he offers softly. 

“Not gonna avoid that shit forever,” he snaps, irritated that they even have to be worried about something like this. “Don’t look at me like that, man.”

Cas studies him for a moment. Then, he cocks his head to the side. “I could simply carry you down the stairs,” the alpha says, holding his hands out as though he’s genuinely expecting Dean to hop right up. 

For a wild moment Dean pictures it in his mind’s eye. The thought of being carried like a bride over the threshold isn’t nearly as mortifying as it ought to be, he thinks, but he’s not about to actually _do_ _that_ – unless… surely, Cas doesn’t actually expect him to–? 

Then the corner of Castiel’s mouth twitches, and Dean realizes he’s _ joking, _ and he smacks his hands away with an eye roll and a grin. “Asshole,” he mutters, turning toward the door, but he can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. 

A millisecond later, a bucket of ice water dumps over his head as he realizes what he just did, what he just  _ said.  _ The urge to drop to his knees and apologize is so strong that it’s a miracle he isn’t already doing it. 

“Sorry,” he blurts, whirling around so he’s looking back at the alpha, his heart in his throat. “Sorry, that was – I didn’t mean –”

“To be yourself?” Castiel interrupts, his tone gentle. He doesn’t even look mildly irritated at Dean’s lack of respect, which isn’t all that surprising considering his track record so far, but still. There’s a difference between having an emotional breakdown and saying things he doesn’t mean, and blatantly insulting the person who  _ owns him.  _

“You… you don’t deserve…” 

Cas frowns. Takes his hand. He doesn’t even pull away when Dean flinches – there’s a tiny part of his brain that’s still expecting a blow. 

Reprimands for his  _ smart fucking mouth  _ had been a dime a dozen, early on. By the end of his first year in the trade, Dean had learned to keep that sort of shit safely locked inside his brain; by the end of year five, he’d been silent there, too.

“I cannot explain,” the alpha says gravely, looking straight into his eyes, “what a victory it is to me, for you to feel safe enough to call me names. It is a mark of your trust, and I’m honored to accept it.”

Any other time, Dean would laugh. But right now, he kind of wants to cry. ‘Cause it really does look like Cas is about to thank Dean for being a grade-A jerk, and he’s not sure how the hell he’s supposed to handle that. How he’s supposed to deal with this genuine, raw kindness, instead of the sucker-punch cruelty that he’s grown far more used to. 

“Well, then,” he says tremulously, “you’re – you’re the biggest asshole I know.”

Cas breaks into a real smile, at that – a bright, sunny thing, something Dean would do just about anything to see again. “Thank you, Dean.”

He laughs, because his chest is full of bright, sunny things of its own, and Castiel’s smile just widens that much further.

* * *

This time, it’s less blind terror and more extreme discomfort when they step into the elevator, mostly because it isn’t a surprise and he knows what to expect. Say what you will about him – Dean can deal with facing things he’s afraid of. He’s been overcoming his own cowardice to do what needs to be done since he was four years old. 

Cas is still holding his hand, pretending not to notice that Dean’s casual grip has turned into something closer to holding-onto-the-edge-of-a-canyon desperation. He taps the button to take them back to the ground floor without moving an inch from his side. 

“Alright?” he asks, tone deceptively mild considering the concern in his scent. 

“Just – just fuckin’ peachy,” Dean manages, hoarse as hell. He closes his eyes; takes a deep, steadying breath of the alpha’s scent. It’s fine. It’s okay, because he’s with Cas. He’s not in a little cell all alone, waiting to get bought again by some new sadistic alpha. Dean’s pretty damn certain he’s never going to go through that again, at this point, and he reminds himself of that over and over until he hears a little  _ ding  _ and the doors slide open. 

He  _ walks _ out of the little coffin room instead of sprinting like he wants to, mostly so he doesn’t make a scene. 

Again, Cas doesn’t bother to let go of his hand. Instead, he holds his head high and walks with Dean, slowly and carefully so he doesn’t strain his knee, and nods at the people they pass by with a polite smile on his face. Dean is too busy listening to his own heartbeat and staring at the floor to meet anyone new, but Cas doesn’t seem inclined to introduce him to anyone else. 

By the time they make it to Pamela’s office, the throbbing in his knee has morphed from uncomfortable to intolerable, and he can see Cas’s nose twitching out of the corner of his eye. The alpha sets him down in a chair outside the door with a firm look that Dean isn’t going to argue with, even if sitting here makes him feel like he’s risking a beating. 

He stares down at his lap. “You’re going in there with me, yeah?” he asks, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

Cas puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be wherever you want me, Dean.” 

Dean gives him a grateful, shaky smile, and glances up and down the hall. There’s a door at the end of the hall that’s all glass, lined with rubber and metal that makes Dean think it’s meant to keep inside and outside scents separated. There’s a vent above it, probably for the same purpose. He supposes it’s pretty important to keep omegas that are already injured from freaking out if they smelled an alpha like Cas, and equally important to keep the scent of omegas in pain away from everyone else. Dean hasn’t spent much time with actual doctors, but he remembers similar set ups from the few times he’d visited a hospital as a kid. 

Inside the hall itself, he can see six or seven doors lining the walls, little numbers and a few clipboards along either side of their frames. He wonders if there are omegas in those rooms. Wonders how bad they were hurt, to need to stay there. There’s another door on the other end of the hall – this one is metal, and it’s got a key card entry. There’s a sign above it with a simple, large letter A that’s been circled and crossed through. He wonders what  _ those  _ omegas must be dealing with. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to sit and wonder long – Pamela opens the exam room door promptly when Cas knocks, a welcoming smile on her face when her eyes land on Dean. 

“Now, is that Dean Winchester?” she asks, a gently teasing glint in her eye. “What happened to the pile of pretzel sticks I examined a couple months ago?”

Dean snorts as Cas helps him back up, leaning on the alpha for support as he finds his balance. “I  _ told _ you Cas was feeding me five times a day. I think he’s trying to fatten me up for the harvest.”

The office behind the door is open and warm, and though there are no windows that he can see from here, it’s wide and bright enough to seem nonthreatening, even with the medical equipment scattered about. He recognizes most of it, though there are a few machines in the corner that make him a little antsy. He doesn’t know what they’re for, and being in the dark about things like that is not usually a good thing. 

Pamela chuckles at his joke. “Well, I’m not complaining.” Dean steps forward to follow her inside, swallowing his trepidation and reminding himself that Cas is gonna be there with him. But before they can step through the door, the doctor puts out a hand and plants it firmly on Castiel’s chest. 

“Whoa, now,” she says firmly. “You don’t need to be in here, Novak.”

Cas glances at Dean, then back at Pamela. “Dean…” 

“Wants him to be there,” Dean cuts in, finishing the alpha’s sentence. His cheeks are bright red, but he doesn’t give a damn. “Please.”

Pamela studies him for a moment, her eyebrows raised. “We’ve established that I follow doctor-patient confidentiality, right?”

Dean shrugs. He can feel himself starting to get twitchy under her gaze, like he’s breaking the rules or disappointing her somehow. “I know. But I still want him there. Is that… can I?” he asks, a little bit desperate, already losing the firm, stubborn feeling he’d had before. 

Pam blows a gust of air out of her mouth, making her bangs fly up on either side of her face. “I suppose it’s alright, at least for a while. I’m going to have to insist that he clears out in about fifteen minutes, though. The less time he spends in here, the less his scent will linger and the less scrubbing I’ll have to do to neutralize it.” 

Dean hadn’t even thought about that, and it hits him with a guilty jolt. The next omega that walks through these doors might have to deal with the scent of an unfamiliar alpha on top of whatever brought them here in the first place, and as good of a guy as Cas is, he knows that if he were in their place he’d be scared. So he nods, trying not to be selfish. 

“At any rate, I’m going to mark it down as a good thing that you still want him around,” Pamela says wryly, patting him on the shoulder.  She steps back and lets them both enter, jerking her head toward a stool for Cas to stay sequestered on. He retreats gamely, folding his hands in his lap. 

“Step up here, will you?” she says, pointing to a scale that’s situated against the wall. “I want to see how much you’ve put on.” 

He steps up on the scale and preens a little when the doctor makes an approving noise, weirdly proud that he’s managed to gain weight. It’s nothing that he did, really – it’s Cas that should be proud. And maybe he is, because he’s sitting up a little bit taller, smiling as Pamela writes down a new, higher number on his chart. 

“You’ve got a ways to go, but that’s one hell of an improvement. I’m less worried that a gust of wind is going to pick you up and blow you away.” 

Dean laughs, just a little. It’s not all that funny that he was emaciated when he first came to Cas’s home, but he’s always gotten by with gallows humor, and he’s happy that Pamela seems to think along the same lines. 

“Lemme get your height, kiddo,” she says, jerking her head so he’ll turn around and lean against the ruler on the wall. She nudges his side gently, arching an eyebrow when he gives her a startled glance. “Stand up straight, will you? Can’t get a good measurement if you’re slouching.” 

Flushing a little, Dean straightens his spine, a bit self conscious. He’s tall, for an omega, and alphas don’t tend to like that – he’s gotten used to hunching in on himself as an automatic form of protection. But, from across the room where he’s leaning on the wall, Cas just smiles at him when Pamela proclaims, “Damn, kid, you’re taller than Novak!”

From there, he’s helped over to the nylon covered examination bed. Pamela stands back and appraises him for a moment, her hands on her hips. “How are you feeling?”

Dean shrugs. This is so different from the first time Pamela checked him out. He isn’t terrified anymore, for one thing, and he knows that he can keep some things to himself without getting in trouble. But he figures that they’ll both be happiest with him if he tells the truth, so he decides not to fib. 

“I feel pretty good,” he says, smiling shyly at Cas, who beams back at him. “Like I said before. All the, um… all the injuries I had? They’re good now. Closed up, I mean. No more bruises.” 

Pamela hums, fiddling with a blood pressure cuff as she listens. “Except your wrists?”

Dean winces when Castiel’s attention sharpens and he sits forward in his seat. “Uh, yeah. I guess.” 

He tugs off his overshirt without having to be asked, goosebumps rising on his skin when he sits there in nothing but a plain t-shirt. Since that moment with the towel, this is as exposed as he’s been in front of anyone in a while. The thought makes his skin prickle uncomfortably.   


Pamela multitasks, taking his blood pressure as she carefully turns his other wrist in one hand, frowning at what she sees. “You weren’t kidding. I’m going to test out your range of motion – let me know when it hurts.”

She bends his hand gently to the side, keeping an eye on his face, and he can’t help the slight wince. She tuts, shaking her head. “Those bastards really did a number on you.”

Dean grimaces. “Did it to myself,” he admits quietly. “Pulling against ‘em, after the bomb, trying to get away. Out of the, uh, shed. I didn’t really know what I was doing.” He rolls his wrist, frowning. “I kinda got a thing with… fire.”

He’s never admitted that to anyone before. But he does. It’s the first bad thing that ever happened to him, his childhood home burning to the ground – the thing that set his life spinning out of control. He knows his dad had been sensitive to it, too. Dean had watched him tense up around campfire smoke, had seen the clench in his jaw every time a fire truck had wailed past the Impala. 

Cas looks thunderous, and while the curling scent of his anger makes him a little tense, it doesn’t bother Dean like it had before. Now, he knows that it’s on his behalf, not directed at him. “You’re gonna scare some poor patient,” he reminds the alpha gently, and Cas takes a visible breath, looking away with his jaw working. 

“Apologies,” he grits out, rolling his shoulders.

Pamela gives them both a long look, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she finishes checking his blood pressure, warms up and then places her stethoscope on his chest. He breathes in without having to be told. “No pneumonia, so that’s good. And your heart sounds nice and strong.” 

She rolls back on her stool, glancing down at his leg. “Cas tells me you banged up your knee pretty good?”

Dean nods, and they roll up his pant leg together so that she can take a look. He’d avoided looking at it this morning, but now he can see that it’s dark and bruised. 

“Looks worse than it feels,” he offers, but she just snorts skeptically and guides him through another range of motion test. Apparently, he fails, because she tells him he needs to have an x-ray.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he protests, frowning. He’d know. He’s plenty familiar with what broken bones feel like.

“I don’t think so, either, but we should get a baseline set anyway,” she explains. “An MRI too, but we can leave that for another day.” Dean just shrugs, willing to do what she wants. An x-ray, from what he remembers, doesn’t hurt. 

She gives him a crutch to use to hobble, but even then Cas hovers at his side, as if he’s sure that at any moment Dean will fall on his ass. Dean tries to find that irritating, but it’s honestly just comforting. 

Pamela runs him through what the x-ray will involve, forbids Cas from being in the room so he “doesn’t end up with a tumor the size of a football, idiot,” and then she’s snapping photos of Dean’s splayed out body. Like he thought, nothing hurts, and he’s almost able to relax on that table while she works. 

Before long, she’s done, and he and Cas are back in the main exam room waiting on the things to print. The alpha is holding his hand, glancing down at his wrists with a frown on his face. 

“Why didn’t you tell me they were hurting, Dean?” he asks abruptly, making use of the moments they have without Pamela in the room. “I’ve been letting you do dishes and clean and cook…” 

Dean snorts. “It don’t hurt that bad, Cas. I wouldn’t have even mentioned it, if Pamela hadn’t asked.” 

“Still.” The alpha sighs. “We’ll need to take it easy –” 

“Please don’t make me stop,” Dean interrupts, his heart already pounding at the thought. “Please. I can’t just sit around doing nothing. It’ll drive me crazy.” 

Cas meets his eyes, his mouth a thin line “But if you’re in pain–”

“I’m always in pain,” he blurts, scared, suddenly, that he’s going to go back to that awful period of limbo from before, where all he could do was trail Cas around the house and sleep. “Always a little, at least. That’s  _ normal,  _ for me,” he pushes, but Castiel’s face just darkens even more. 

“I don’t  _ want  _ it to be normal for you,” he snaps. 

“Well that’s too bad!” he snaps back, a little angry. He can’t help that he’s in pain. He can’t  _ help  _ that for the last ten years, alphas have used them as their veritable punching bags. Dean didn’t want it, but life isn’t fair. 

There are some wounds he has that aren’t ever gonna heal – his shoulder, twinging when he moves his arm just right from a bad dislocation a few years back. His left ankle, which aches when he rests too much weight on it, an injury from a long time ago that he barely remembers. The scar on his stomach tingles, sometimes, little pins and needles from what’s probably nerve damage, and, when it rains, his collarbone aches where the second alpha who owned him snapped it in a fit of rage. He is a collection of scars, of little agonies that have become a part of him. 

Cas looks chastised, almost ashamed of himself, and Dean takes a breath. “I’m in the least amount of pain that I’ve been in for years, okay? I don’t even notice it, most of the time. And I know you won’t hurt me. I know that. But you can’t protect me from everything, Cas, especially not things that have already  _ happened _ .”

“I wish I could,” he whispers. “I wish I could have… gone back in time. I wish you’d been kept safe, like you deserve.”

Dean half laughs. It's a nice thought, but even if he hadn’t signed himself over, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid being hurt – his dad had been doing it long before anyone had paid to. But he doesn’t want to talk about that, and he thinks the alpha has an idea of some of the shit his dad had done anyway, so he pushes those thoughts away. 

“Yeah, well. When you invent your time machine, stop by Lebanon, Virginia, about eleven years ago, and give teenage me a stern talking-to.” And a couple dozen grand, he doesn’t say, but he thinks Cas gets the picture, because his jaw tightens. 

“Dean–” 

He’s saved from whatever lecture Cas is about to give him by Pamela reappearing in the room, a pile of x-ray thingies in her hands. She starts sticking them on a little white box that’s hung on the wall, and pretty soon, Dean figures out that it’s a light box. 

She shows them his knee, first. It’s strange to see his own bones on display, and despite himself, he’s fascinated. “No break, Dean. You were right,” she says, tracing his kneecap with a little felt tip marker. She glances over at them both, her eyes lingering on Cas – they’re heavier than before. A little more weary. Dean wonders if looking at his x-rays caused that. “The only breaks I found were old. Healed, as much as they could be.” 

Even with his untrained eye, Dean thinks he can see a few of them. He remembers that crack in his shin, at least, and the rigid splint the trainers had slapped on it when he’d been returned. Too expensive for his owner to fix, even though he’d been the one to break it in the first place. 

He can feel Cas getting stiff beside him, and Pamela seems to notice too. “This would be a great time for you to leave, Novak. You’re stinking up the whole wing.”

Cas looks like he’s about to argue, but Dean squeezes his hand. “I’ll be okay, Cas. Promise.” And he does mean it. As much as he’d wanted the alpha to stay before, he’s starting to realize that this is just going to be hard on him. Dean’s used to this – used to seeing himself broken and bruised. Cas isn’t, and he’s not handling it very well.

The alpha cocks his jaw, but he sighs, and relents. “Alright. I’ll be right outside, though,” he warns, and it’s almost funny to watch him try and be intimidating in front of Pam’s ice cold stare. 

“No, you won’t. I’ve got a kid coming by in half an hour to do a check in, and you’re not allowed to scare her off,” she says, looking down pointedly at his badge with the little black A. Dean thinks that it’s kind of funny – that letter seems unnecessary. Who the hell would look at Cas and  _ not  _ know he’s an alpha?

Castiel blinks. Deflates, just a little. “Oh. Right.” He looks to Dean, painfully earnest. “I’ll… I’ll make the rounds, then? And I’ll meet you…”

“In the cafeteria,” Pamela finishes primly, pulling the x-ray off of the little light box. Her tone books no room for argument.   


“Right. Okay.” He squeezes Dean’ hand again, looking a little lost all of a sudden. “You’ll be okay?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, Cas. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll call you if I need, alright?”

“Alright.” He lingers for a moment more, looking like he wants to say something. But whatever it is must not be important, because he just squeezes Dean’s hand one last time and then lets go. He leaves with all the reluctance of a dog ordered out of the kitchen, but he does leave.

“Wild horses,” Pamela mutters. Dean flushes bright red. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I need to go through and reply to all your lovely comments on the last chapter. I'll do that by Tuesday!


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely darlings! 
> 
> Another long chapter for all of you. I hope you enjoy it - there's a lot going on, here! Angst abound, as usual. I've put some specific warnings in the end notes, just in case. The first half of the chapter is from Castiel's perspective, and the second is from Dean's. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to the lovely humans who take the time to comment and let me know what they think! I love talking to you guys. You're all amazing, and I can't wait to discuss what happened in this chapter with y'all!
> 
> EDIT: I added a bit right there at the end, because lots of people were confused about why Dean was freaking out T-T I think this is one of those instances where something was very clear in my head, but was not so clearly conveyed in writing! APOLOGIES!

The wind seems to find its way directly into Castiel’s jacket the moment he steps outside. He shivers, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, and ignores the urge to turn around and go right back through the little side exit he’d just come out of. 

He can’t. Worry – and worse, _anger –_ are running rampant his scent. He knows that’s something that will be alarming to many of the omegas inside, and he’s unwilling to subject them to the volatility of an alpha’s emotions while they recover. There’s a reason that he’s careful to take separate paths, most of the time – a reason that he stays in areas where the omegas are fully aware alphas might be. He is not trying to set back anyone’s recovery by spooking them. 

Firmly telling himself not to sulk, he meanders down the path along the edge of the building. The sun is still hiding behind the clouds, and the snow is slushy and gray. Midway through April, spring is somewhat overdue and definitely here to stay, and the bits of snow on the ground are likely the last they’ll see until winter returns. 

Normally, that would sadden him. Castiel likes the winter – likes the simplicity of it, the clean lines that the snow makes of his surroundings. Knowing what he knows about Dean’s experience with the outdoors, though, Castiel cannot help but be glad that sunshine and flowers will soon replace the cold. 

He sighs, staring out into the woods. 

It is hard to think of Dean as he’d first been, when Castiel had brought him home. Limping and bruised and bloody. And that had been after several days of healing – Dean’s pain threshold is bound to be high. It shouldn’t bother him so much that Dean had been keeping things from him. The omega hadn’t considered his pain important, obviously; it wasn’t that Dean hadn’t _wanted_ to tell him, or that he’d been actively lying. It was just that he hadn’t seen a reason to bring it up. 

And, even if he _had_ intentionally neglected to mention it, perhaps he’d been right to do so. Castiel had instantly – and apparently, predictably – overreacted. 

Dean is his own person, whether the law recognizes him that way or not, and so Castiel should not feel in any way entitled to make decisions for him. Yet he’d attempted to do so without a second thought. He’d completely disregarded Dean’s feelings and desires in favor of protecting his omega from – 

He grimaces at the mental slip. _His_ omega. 

He’s been doing that more and more, lately; thinking of Dean that way. He’d slipped into that exact mindset in the elevator, a few hours ago, had snapped orders at Dean like he had any right to do so. He hadn’t used his _alpha_ voice, but he also had known, somehow, that he hadn’t needed to. There had been terror in Dean’s eyes – the same sort of fear he’d had early on, when he hadn’t so much as looked up without express permission. The omega had been fast approaching a morbidly familiar panic spiral, and Castiel had been desperate to avoid it.

Dean, of course, had insisted that he hadn’t minded, and had even _thanked_ him for it. That had eased his guilt a little, but it still distresses him that his first instinct had been to take control. He’s not _good_ at that – isn’t good enough to do that. Castiel has never been _alpha_ in that way. But the small attempts he’s made at telling Dean what to do, if only to ease his anxiety, have felt distressingly… easy. Natural. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

What he _does_ know is that he wants to protect Dean from anything and everything that could do him harm. He wants that so bad that his chest aches. 

And, yet. 

Dean had been correct, when he’d chastised him and reminded Castiel that something like that was not possible. No matter how much he desires to, Castiel cannot keep the omega in a bubble of protection. And, furthermore, Dean does not _need_ to be protected to that degree – he is more than capable of taking care of himself, now that he’s got his feet back under him. He can get a grip on his own fears and insecurities faster than Castiel could, put in the same position. 

He’s proud of Dean, he realizes; so proud that his chest has grown warm and tight just thinking about it, out here in the cold. He’s proud that the omega is willing to keep trying, proud that Dean is brave enough to be rude, to joke with a man he was terrified of only months ago. He’s proud to be beside him while he’s learning to stand tall.

And… Dean needs to be free. 

Castiel’s excuses for hiding the possibility from him have more than run out. He knows that Dean will be able to handle the information, now – knows that, while he may be initially upset, he will be able to wrap his mind around the idea quickly. Will be able to understand how necessary it is, for his continued recovery. 

He also knows that bringing Dean to the center all but guarantees that he’ll figure it out all on his own, and he tries not to feel like a coward for hoping that he does. 

“You always smell so _damp_ when you’re guilty. Like a bloody basement.” 

Beside him, Balthazar has materialized and matched his stride perfectly, his hands crammed into his pockets and his scarf over his nose. His eyes are trained on Castiel closely. “Where’s Winchester?”

“With Pam,” he admits, sighing. 

There’s a moment of silence in which Castiel waits to be reprimanded – he knows that Bal will understand exactly why he’s been sent out of the clinic. Instead, though, the omega lets out a sigh to match his own. 

“Was it the x-rays?”

Castiel feels a tightness in his throat, feels his nose sting, and Balthazar makes a knowing sort of noise – though not a teasing one. He looks out at the path ahead of them, his eyes a little distant. “Hard to look at, I’ll wager.” 

Castiel wonders, numbly, what Balthazar’s x-rays might look like. Wonders how much damage his family and the unnamed masters before them have managed to do to the man that has chosen, in spite of that cruelty, to be his friend. 

He swallows. “Yes. They were.”

And God, they had been. Castiel had only seen the first pair – Dean’s leg, from the knee down, and the snapshot of his chest that Pamela had tossed up next to it. She hadn’t needed to point out the breaks to him; he’s familiar with examining x-rays, hours of staring at slave files enough to have made him an ameteur radiologist. He’d seen the hairline fractures scattered like spiderwebs on Dean’s ribcage. Had seen the badly healed break on his clavicle – an old injury. Had seen that, while Dean’s knee isn’t currently broken, it certainly has been in the past. 

When he’d first seen Dean’s file, he’d skipped over scans like that. Much more pressing had been the exhausted eyes of the man in the last photo, the distressingly sharp decline of escape attempts on record. But, sitting in Pam’s exam room and trying desperately to control his emotions, he’d been unable to turn away from the awful things that Dean has endured. 

Bal claps a hand on his shoulder, firm and bracing. “Leave the past in the past, mate. No use getting upset now.” 

“Easy to say,” he says, voice low. “What I wouldn’t give to find the _scum_ that did those things to him…” 

Balthazar just hums, patting him once before returning his hand to his pocket. “Yes, well. As much fun as I’m sure you’d have turning them into veritable piñatas, you’d have quite the hunt in front of you. That kid went through more masters than I did.”

The omega is quiet, and for a while the only sound they can hear is the crunching of damp snow under their shoes. 

He’s known Balthazar long enough to be able to tell when something is bothering him – his normal, citrus scent sharpens into something closer to disinfectant when he’s agitated. And right now, he smells like pine-sol. He turns, raising an eyebrow at the omega. 

Bal flicks his eyes at him, then looks back at the path. It’s another moment before he speaks. “Alastair Carn.” 

Castiel stiffens, but Balthazar doesn’t pause. “That was the name Ash finally dug up yesterday. The bastard didn’t make it easy, suprisingly – normally, the brothel type are exceptionally stupid. But he covered his tracks well.” 

Castiel can feel his hands closing into fists in his pockets. Having a name – a _real_ name, not just a whisper of a man – makes it worse, somehow. It forces him to wrap his mind around the idea that a real, _living_ human being had been the one to break Dean down to rubble.

“You found something on him, didn’t you,” he says bluntly. It’s not a question. Balthazar wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t be hesitating if it was _good_ news. 

Balthazar rubs a hand over his mouth, frowning. “It’s more what I _didn’t_ find that’s distressing, actually.” 

Castiel takes a deep, steadying breath. “Tell me,” he tries not to growl, “that the bastard is not alive, Balthazar.” 

The omega glances at him, his face carefully devoid of its usual lively emotion. “Wish I could. But there’s no death cert’ on record for him. Ash sifted through everything he could get his hands on, and none of the John Doe cadavers found around the blast site are a match for the photo he’s got, either.” 

Heartbeat thudding in his ears, he doesn’t realize he’s stopped in his tracks until Balthazar eyes him, a slightly wary expression on his face. “Cassie–” 

“The photo,” he snaps, holding his hand out.

The omega hesitates. “You know there’s nothing he could do, yes? He’s lost the chance to claim him. He–” 

“Balthazar,” Castiel bites. “Let me see.”

Sighing, the man relents, digging in his pocket for his phone. He taps at it for a moment and then sends it over, and Castiel opens the message on his cell with a cold, frightening sort of calm. 

The man in the photo has short, graying brown hair. He’s white. Probably late forties, early fifties. Surrounded by sallow, wrinkled skin, his colorless, deep set eyes stare at Castiel from the small photo; below that, his mouth forms a savage, joyless smirk. 

Castiel realizes, distantly, that his hands are shaking. 

This is the man who hurt Dean. Who bound him, and beat him, and whipped him. This is the man who trained him into subservience and fear. This is the man who allowed countless alphas to violate the omega in the worst way imaginable; this is the man who did so _himself_ so often that Dean was not even allowed to sleep on his own terms. 

This is the man who carved, and shattered, and _tore_ at the most vulnerable parts of Dean, until the very soul of the man he loves was twisted beyond recognition.

This is _not_ a man. He is a monster _._

He jerks when someone touches him, baring his teeth. Snapping his eyes up, a feral growl rips from the back of his throat, something savage inside of him roaring for a fight – for someone to _hurt._

But there is only Balthazar, his palm hiding the photo, his fingers wrapped around the back of Castiel’s hand. 

Confused, Castiel is frozen in place; muscles quivering, heart pounding. 

The omega locks the phone for him. Unflinching, his normally joyful face creased with sadness, he meets Castiel’s gaze with what can only be described as a deep, sympathetic understanding. 

“Breathe, Castiel.”

A breath he didn’t know he was holding hostage bursts out of him. He takes a shaky, hungry gulp of the cold air. Fights back a wave of something feral and furious, a chill crawling up his spine. The woods are spinning around him. 

“It’s alright,” Balthazar says, his voice low and calm. His hand is still wrapped around Castiel’s own, an anchor. “It’s alright. There’s no danger here, and Dean is safe and sound. There is nothing and no one to fight.”

Slowly, the swarm buzzing in his brain quiets down. 

He blinks once, twice. Balthazar’s scent washes over him, intentionally soothing, and he realizes that the omega has his other hand around Castiel’s wrist. Holding him back.

All at once, the sheer degree of the control he just lost hits him. He staggers back and turns away, nausea twisting his insides; Balthazar lets him go. He says nothing as Castiel stumbles off the path, says nothing as he leans against a tree and closes his eyes, swallowing convulsively. 

“Shit,” he finally croaks. The world spins a bit – he wonders if he’s going to vomit. “Shit.”

Balthazar gives him a moment more to get his bearings. When he can breathe correctly again, he hears the crunch of snow under shoes and feels his friend’s hand on his shoulder. 

“You,” he finally says, a hint of humor under his sympathy, “can be downright terrifying, mate.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I – that was –”

“Normal, given the circumstances,” Bal says simply. He doesn’t sound angry, and, more importantly, he doesn’t sound _afraid –_ Castiel would never forgive himself if he managed to scare Balthazar after years of building up his trust. 

They stand in silence for a while, their breath puffing out in little clouds. Castiel realizes that he’s shivering. 

“I need to sit,” he says, hoarse, and Balthazar hums an agreement – he gently steers him toward a nearby bench, brushes the snow from the wood, and nudges him until he drops down on it. He covers his face with his hands and tries not to think about what he might have done if there actually _had_ been an alpha in front of him, a moment ago. 

“This is worse than the parking garage,” he says into his hands. “How can it be worse? What the hell is wrong with me, that I’m more angry at a _photo_ than I am at someone who had just tried to _rape_ him –”

“If he’d actually done so, you’d probably be facing murder charges,” Balthazar says bluntly. “It’s different because you knew the bloke in the garage didn’t get a chance to touch him. And you know this one did.”

He shudders, an aftershock of anger rippling through him. “If that man comes anywhere near him…” 

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” Balthazar leans back on the bench next to him, settling in with his hands folded in his lap. There’s a moment of silence between them, and then Bal says,

“You’re head over heels for him, aren’t you?”

Castiel closes his eyes. He isn’t about to deny it – not to Balthazar. He knows better than to think he could fool him, and he owes him the truth anyway. “Yes,” he mumbles into his palms.

Bal just huffs, a puff of condensation floating above him. “Of course you are. Not interested in a single bloody omega for years, no matter how many of them come through the center, and now…”

He sounds mildly exasperated, but he isn’t accusatory. Castiel looks over at him – Bal is gazing out at the slushy snow with a strange look on his face. “I haven’t touched him,” Castiel pleads, desperate. “I haven’t…” 

“Oh, I know,” Bal says easily. “You wouldn’t. I’m not worried.”

Shoulders slumping, he looks down at his hands, relief and misery coiling together. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“We rarely do,” his friend responds wryly. “Does he know?”

Castiel’s throat tightens at the mere thought. “God, no. No. He isn’t free, Bal – I can’t tell him, not now.”

Balthazar hums an agreement, nodding. “And what about when he _is_ free? What then?”

He sighs, rubbing at his face. “I suppose I’ll play it by ear. I just…” 

The wind rustles through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a flock of chickadees sends out warning calls. A raven caws in response, the sound echoing off the snow. 

“I don’t want him to think he owes me anything.”

“And that,” Balthazar says warmly, “is exactly why I trust you. And exactly why _he_ will trust that he won’t need to manufacture feelings for you just to please you. Maybe not now, maybe not anytime soon. But, given time…” 

He trails off, and Castiel doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s grinning. “I am never going to hear the end of this, am I?” 

“Absolutely bloody not. This is delicious ammunition.”

He groans into his palms, and Balthazar laughs as he claps him on the shoulder. 

* * *

Once Cas has left, Pam gets down to business. 

She points out various little spots on the x-rays and questions him on each one, her mouth getting thinner and thinner as he answers her questions as plainly as he can. By the time they’ve discussed the healed breaks in his fingers – the ones he can remember, anyway – she’s downright pissed, her eyes blazing and her a muscle in her cheek twitching as she violently scribbles things down in his chart. 

There was a time when Dean might have thought that anger was directed at him – fury for all the punishments he’s earned over the years. But he knows better, now. He recognizes the mama bear rage in the older woman, and he’s grateful for it. 

What she _doesn’t_ do is start offering sympathy, and Dean’s even more grateful for that. He’s not sure how he would take it, if he’s being honest – he doesn’t need anyone’s pity, and there’s no changing what’s already happened. So he’s happy that Pam just cocks her jaw and hisses, “those fucking _bastards,”_ when she can’t seem to help herself, rather than crying or something equally terrifying that Dean would have no idea how to handle. 

“Do you blow a gasket for all your patients, or am I just special?” he cracks, to cover the self conscious wave of gratitude in his chest. It just… it feels so good to be cared for, feels good to know that there’s another person in the world that thinks what has happened to him was not deserved. 

There have been many moments in Dean’s life where he’s wondered if he truly _did_ earn the punishments he’s endured – a part of him, larger and larger over the years, that has suspected he truly is defective, or broken, or bad. People like Cas and Pamela and Balthazar… they are slowly but surely setting him straight, reminding him that there are plenty of folks in the world who would never condone the things that have been done to him. Who condemn those who would. 

It had been difficult, these last few years, to remember that people like that still existed. 

Pamela snorts, adjusting the glasses on her face. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a case like yours, Dean. Most of the omegas that come through here are pretty green.”

She leaves off the obvious – that omegas like him don’t tend to live long at all, and if they do, they’re too far gone for even people like Cas to save. 

House omegas have it a little better, he guesses. They’re trained as nannies and housekeepers, and, while they don’t escape violence completely, they usually only have one alpha using them at a time. They tend to be healthier. To live longer. The ones sent to breeding farms – _fertility clinics,_ free people call them – are treated better than even that, simply because they have to be in order to keep a pup alive. 

But omegas like Dean, dumped into the trade as a teenager and trained for one purpose and one purpose only, aren’t destined to last long. 

He’s pretty sure that outright killing a slave is illegal. But nothing says he can’t starve to death from being punished one too many times. Nothing says he can’t bleed to death from a beating he earned, or from an alpha using him a little too roughly. It’s a combination of dumb luck and spite that’s kept Dean alive this long, and he knows it. 

Pamela sighs, rubbing at the bridge of her nose as she tries to find her center. “Sorry. I promise I’m not always this unprofessional.”

Dean shakes his head, smiling a little. “Nah. It’s kinda nice, actually. I appreciate it, so, you know. Don’t apologize.”

She gives him a sad sort of smile in return, something soft in her gaze. “You’ve got a lot of kindness inside of you, Dean Winchester.” 

He snorts. “Sure. Regular old Mother Teresa, right here.”

She rolls her eyes, but rather than argue with him, she flips to a new page on his chart. “Ready for the unpleasant bit?”

Dean suppresses the instinctual urge to balk, and looks up at her instead. “Ready as ever, I guess.”

Much like the first time she’d looked him over, Dean tugs off his shirt and sits very still as Pam gently examines him. She nods approvingly at the lack of bruises on him, smiles when she sees that his back has healed. She doesn’t mention his nape, but he can tell that she’s relieved to see it free of injuries – even as a beta, she understands how sensitive omegas are back there. By the time he’s buttoning his shirt back up, he’s much less tense than he’d thought he’d be. 

Then, of course, comes the harder part. 

“I should take a look down there too, kiddo. Just to be sure everything’s healing and working as it should be,” she says, looking down at his pelvis pointedly. And, as much as he’s decided that he trusts Pamela, Dean can’t help but stiffen. 

The doctor raises her hands with her palms out. “Feel free to tell me to back off,” she says gently, her humor softening to genuine compassion. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

Dean shakes his head, cocking his jaw. “It’s fine,” he mutters, and he tugs off his pants before he can convince himself not to. 

Instead of standing, like he had the first time, Dean lays back on the little bed and stares up at the ceiling. He can’t tell if it's better or worse like this. He can hear Pamela shuffling things around, can feel her getting closer. She narrates exactly what she’s going to do before she does it, and that helps a lot – as do the approving noises she makes when she examines him for anything that hasn’t healed. By the time she’s done, his skin is crawling and he feels a little faint, but he doesn’t want to bolt. And that’s an improvement. 

“You can go ahead and pull up your pants, Dean, but I’d like to do a quick ultrasound on your abdominal scarring. As long as you’re alright with that.”

Dean clenches his jaw and doesn’t answer, shimmying his jeans back up. He leaves them unbuttoned so she can access the scar. His heart is in his throat. 

She raises the head of the bed a little, easing him up a few inches, and with a better view of the room he finds he’s more relaxed. She wheels over one of the machines he’d been wary of earlier, and he eyes it like a spooked horse. 

“Have you ever seen one of these be performed?”

He shakes his head. 

“Okay, well. It’s not invasive. Basically, I’m going to coat the end of this little wand,” she holds up something that looks a little too familiar for him to be comfortable, “in some slippery gel, just so it will slide around easier. Then I’ll glide it over the area I want to look at. It’s painless – the worst you’ll feel is a little bit cold.”

He swallows, eyeing the wand apprehensively. “It doesn’t… it stays outside. Yeah?”

“Yes,” she confirms. It’s all too obvious that she knows exactly what he’d been thinking about. “It works a bit like a stud finder.”

He snorts at the mental image, relaxing a bit. “Oh. Okay. Well, go crazy, then.”

She smiles at him, and squirts something like petroleum jelly on the end of the wand. It is a little cold when it touches his skin, and he jumps, but it doesn’t hurt. The scar tingles where she touches it, but that’s about it. 

Pamela turns to the little monitor attached to the screen, frowning as she peers at the grainy image through her glasses. It looks incomprehensible to Dean, but she’s clearly able to understand it – she makes an unhappy noise, gliding the thing back and forth across the skin below his stomach. 

“There’s… a lot of scarring,” she says quietly. Dean knew that already – he was there for the _surgery._ He’d been awake – until he’d passed out, anyway. So he knows it hadn’t exactly been a nip-tuck situation. 

“From what I can see,” she says, frowning, “your cycle will probably proceed as normal, once you’re healthy enough for it. But just like I thought… you won’t be able to get pregnant. Even if you did, the pup wouldn’t survive past a few weeks. There’s just too much damage."

Dean waits to have some sort of reaction to that – waits to feel angry, or sad, or relieved. But there’s just this numb sort of buzzing in his brain when he looks at that grainy image on the monitor. 

He hadn’t ever wanted kids – hadn’t thought he ever would. But he would have liked to choose for himself. Like so many things in his life, though, the choice has been made for him. 

It’s just another thing to mourn. 

Silently, Pam wipes the jelly off his stomach with a damp, warm towel. She doesn’t push him – doesn’t try and encourage him, or give him useless platitudes. It is what it is. 

After she’s done, he can sit up all the way, and he does so, swinging his legs back over the edge of the bed. Pamela hands him a little plastic cup full of water, which he sips from gratefully. Probably sensing that he needs some space, she drops herself onto the stool that Castiel had been on before continuing. 

“While we’re on the subject, have you had any issues getting aroused?”

Dean nearly chokes on the water, spilling it down his shirt. “Have I – _what?”_ he sputters. 

Pamela just cocks her head at him, as if she couldn’t possibly imagine what would be mortifying about that question. “Have you had trouble with getting slick, I mean. Or becoming erect. I didn’t see anything on the ultrasound that would impede that, but...”

Dean’s pretty sure his mouth is flapping like a fish. “I – that’s. Um.”

She waits for him to sort out his words with a bemused expression on her face. “Why are you – I mean. Why does it matter?” he can’t help but demand, his stomach churning. Had Cas _told_ her?

“Just want to be sure all your equipment is up and running, kiddo,” she says patiently, smiling – he decides that Cas couldn’t have said anything, because she’d probably be using kiddy-gloves if he had. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Things like that are completely natural.”

Numb, he mechanically says, “It happened yesterday.” 

She nods and jots that down in his chart – and God, does that mean someone _else_ is going to read that? He swallows, watching her pen move back and forth. “Other omegas here… They do that? Too?”

She looks at him a little closer, this time. For a moment, he can tell that she doesn’t understand the question – and when she does get it, her face softens, dangerously close to that pity that he dreaded so much. 

“Yes, Dean. They do. Once they’ve had a chance to heal, and their bodies go back to normal. It’s a healthy thing.”

“It was fucking terrifying,” he blurts, and immediately flushes bright red when Pamela’s eyebrows shoot up. “I… it. It scared me. I’m not. I wasn’t. Allowed to, um. Yeah.” The words tumble out of him, small and timid. God, he wants to dig himself into a hole and pass away.

Pamela slowly stands up. She comes over to stand in front of him. And, with no preamble or hesitation, she tugs him into a hug. 

He curls into it, face screwed up as he tries not to cry. Pamela smells like lavender shampoo and hand lotion, and her chest is warm and soft, and for a fleeting moment, Dean remembers what it was like to be hugged by his mom. He thought he’d hate this – thought he didn’t want her sympathy. It turns out, though, to feel like cool water on a burn. 

“Castiel doesn’t care about that,” she says, and the pity he’d been afraid to hear in her voice is nowhere to be found. “Just so we’re clear.”

He sniffs, and takes in a shaky breath. “I know. I know he doesn’t. I just didn’t think I… I wasn’t sure I could even do that anymore. Not by myself.”

She leans him back by his shoulders, searching his face. “I’m so sorry that they tried to take that from you, Dean. They had no right.”

 _Yes they did,_ he wants to argue. _They bought me. They had every right._ But he doesn’t say that, because he knows that Pamela doesn’t think that way. Knows that they’re in a building full of people who would be horrified at those words. So he just gives her a shaky smile and wipes at his nose, an apology already forming for being so pathetic about something like this. 

Pamela doesn’t give him the chance, though. _“You,_ on the other hand, have every right to feel good, Dean. Experiencing arousal and pleasure are things that _all_ people deserve as human beings. And when you’re comfortable with searching that out, please know that you are entitled to do what you want to do with your body. You will never need permission again.” 

Hearing it put so plainly makes him a little lightheaded. Maybe he’s lucky enough that Cas won’t want to control him like that, but Pam says it like she thinks it’s a universal right for _all_ slaves. Something niggles at the back of his mind, but he pushes it away, too dazed to examine the thought. “Okay. Yeah.”

She gives his shoulders one last squeeze and steps away, shaking her head at herself. “You know, I typically don’t hug patients this much, either.”

“Guess I _am_ just special,” he jokes, and if his voice is trembling a little, she has the decency not to mention it. 

She smiles at him, but she doesn’t deny it. He tries not to feel too pleased about it. Flipping through his chart, she taps her pen on the tip of her nose and sighs. 

“You aren’t really healthy enough for heats, yet, as much as you’ve improved,” she says, rapping the end of her pen on the clipboard. “It’s gonna be awhile before those start up again. When they do, are you interested in suppressants?”

He’s nodding before she can even finish her sentence, and, with a serious look on her face, she writes down his response so it’s official. “Under different circumstances, I’d advise against them for a while so you can get back to a normal cycle. But I think it’s probably better to keep them at bay, at least for now, considering your living situation.” Living with Cas, she means. 

“I was on them before,” he confesses, a little nervous. Most people don’t like the idea of omegas skipping their heats – it’s not _natural,_ and since omegas were made for producing offspring, it’s even considered sacrilegious _._ “As a kid, I mean. And scent blockers, too.” 

Pamela’s gaze is critical and unreadable, and he tries not to squirm under it. “There _are_ other options, Dean. If suppressants aren’t the best one, we do have a heat wing here,” she says, and Dean remembers the locked door with the crossed out A. “With you going so long without a natural heat, that might be the better plan – at least at first.” 

He doesn’t respond, overwhelmed at the thought, and she eases up. “We’ll talk about it again when you’re closer to starting back up. Deal?”

“Deal,” he breathes. 

She flips the pages of his chart back down with a finality that tells him that they’re done, and sets the clipboard down on the counter. “Welp, that’s all she wrote. Anything else you want to talk about before I turn you lose? I think Claire’s probably waiting by now.”

He shakes his head, and she smiles at him, helping him down off the bed. “Keep that crutch with you, alright? You can bring it back when your knee heals up.” She bustles around, grabbing a spray bottle out of the cabinet above the sink, and adds, “Tell Claire to hang on for a moment, if she is out there. I need to get rid of Novak’s alpha stink.”

He snorts. “Will do.” Limping to the door, he hesitates a moment before opening it. He turns back around. “Pam?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

She smiles at him, the expression crinkling her crows feet pleasantly. “I’ll see you soon, Dean.”

* * *

When he steps out, there’s a young woman waiting in the same chair he’d been in before, her arms crossed over her chest. 

She’s young, 19 or 20, and she brushes long, blonde hair out of her face to look up at him. Her omega scent is sweet, but faint – Dean wonders if she’s on heat suppressants. The kid looks healthy, and if it weren’t for the tags around her neck, he might not have clocked her for a slave at all. She’s sitting in her chair without even a hint of trepidation, meeting his startled gaze with a cool glare. 

“Are you Claire?”

“Who’s asking?” she demands, crossing her arms. She eyes the tags on his chest suspiciously. “I haven’t seen you around here.”

Dean blinks at her attitude – it’s not one he’s used to seeing from omegas, other than himself. “I’m staying with a staff member.”

“Huh. Overstock,” she sniffs, flipping her hair as she leans back in the chair. Her nose wrinkles. “You stink.”

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically. What a little shit. “Pam says to wait for a bit before going in.”

“Is she mopping up your fear scent?”

Dean studies her. It would be easy to rise to the bait. He’s pretty sure that’s exactly what she wants, barking at him like she is. Whatever happened to this girl has put her defenses a mile high – she’s on the offense. 

“No. Well, actually. Yeah, probably that too,” he admits, and she glances back at him, caught off guard. She’s obviously surprised that he would cop to it, but a moment later, she doubles down, grimacing as she sniffs him again. She leans away from him with a sneer. 

“You smell like alpha.”

Dean cocks his head to the side. “Yeah, I’m sure I do. I’m living with Castiel.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Castiel _Novak?_ Yeah, right.”

“Why’s that so surprising?”

“Because no one ever even sees that dude,” she snaps, tapping her foot on the ground. “He’s a recluse, or something. That’s what everyone says.”

“Yeah, well. He’s been working from home for a while,” he says, studying her. She looks nervous, now, a muscle twitching in her jaw, and he thinks that her indifference is just a shield. This kid has been hurt, as most of them have, and while she’s doing a bang up job of hiding it, it’s becoming pretty obvious that she’s not used to having conversations like this with strangers. 

He leans against the wall, sighing as he takes some weight off of his leg, and she eyes the crutch warily. “So, what? You fucked up, he did that to you, and now the doc’s cleaning you up?”

“I did this to me,” he corrects, shaking his head. He can’t begrudge her the suspicion – he’d feel the exact same, he knows. “He wouldn’t. And if you know anything about Pam, you know she wouldn’t let anyone get away with that. Even him.”

“Right,” she says flatly. 

“You don’t know Pam?” he guesses, but she makes a face. 

“I know her. Jody forces me to come see her every other week, seems like,” she grouses, crossing her arms.

Dean racks his brains, and remembers that Jody is also an employee here – Cas has mentioned her a few times. He thinks he remembers him saying that she was a scouter, or something; someone who looks for slaves to buy, he guesses. And now a fosterer, just like Cas. He wonders if Jody has offered to keep her, like Cas has offered to keep him. 

“So, doesn’t that make _you_ overstock, too?”

She glares at him, silent. And that’s answer enough, he thinks. He wonders if that means she was part of the latest round of slaves that Castiel’s center had taken in. The thought of this kid being in a brothel that was _anything_ like Hell makes his stomach turn – she’s far too young to have seen things like that. 

She makes a dismissive gesture at him, huffing, “Well, it was _great_ to meet you. Bye-bye now.”

“You didn’t meet me,” he points out, amused, in spite of himself, at her petulant attitude. “You don’t even know my name.”

She rolls her eyes, but gives in with a sigh. “So what the hell is it, then?”

“Dean. And you?”

The eye-roll increases ten-fold. _“Claire._ You knew that already, dipshit.” 

“Yeah, well. Sue me for trying to use manners,” he jokes, nudging her foot with the end of his crutch before hauling himself upright and finding his balance. “Mind pointing me toward the cafeteria?”

She looks up at him silently, for a moment. “Just go back to the main hall. You’ll see the sign. It’s idiot-proof, lucky for you,” she snipes, though most of the malice has bled from her tone.

He grins, unbothered by her bluster – after all, it’s familiar. “Thanks, kid.”

“I’m _not_ a kid.”

“You sure look like one, squirt,” he teases, and ignores her protests as he hobbles away. “See you around, Claire.”

“...Sure,” she mutters. He grins to himself as he goes. 

* * *

The dining hall _is_ easy to find, luckily. He limps slowly back to the main hall, quietly taking in the sights and sounds and smells. He can scent plenty of omegas, and some faint hints of a beta here and there, but the only alpha smell he can pick up on is Castiel’s – and he’s pretty sure it’s only because they’re bonded. No other alphas seem to be around. It seems strange, at first, but then he realizes that’s probably entirely intentional.

It doesn’t take the kind of shit that Dean’s been through for omegas to be wary of unfamiliar alphas. To the unmated and the unclaimed, any one of them could be a threat. If the purpose of this place is to help take away a slave’s fear, having a bunch of alphas running around would be completely counterintuitive. 

The main lobby is more crowded this time around, and he walks without looking up at anyone. He doesn’t want to answer any questions. People leave him alone, thankfully, even without Cas by his side – he figures the tags keep him under the radar. 

Most of the omegas he passes are young, hardly older than Claire. They can’t have been in the trade long, he thinks, and he assumes most of them have been here for a while, because they smile and laugh with an ease that he envies. Groups of two or four slip in and out of doors, meander down halls, and walk in and out of the residential hall he spotted earlier. Every once in a while, there’s someone who looks a little more like him – a bit older, a bit more wary. A bit more hollow. But even they seem to be, for the most part, unafraid. 

The dining hall turns out to be just a short walk away from the lobby, connected by a wide hallway lined with benches and tables and doors that lead outside into what looks a bit like a courtyard. It’s past noon, at this point, and so there are lots of omegas and betas here for lunch. 

A little too gun shy to hop in line, rumbling stomach or no, Dean finds a place to wait. Wary of spooking anyone in here, he chooses a seat near a door that leads outside, and he texts Cas to let him know where he is so he won’t have to wander. Based on what Claire said, he figures the alpha likes to go incognito when he can. 

He tries to get his bearings. It’s not loud, exactly, and he’s glad – the room seems like it was designed with quiet in mind, despite its size and the number of people in it. There are lots of soft seats around, couches and tables and chairs scattered into little nooks and crannies, soft rugs all over the place. And, everywhere, omegas are nestled into their seats or sitting in little circles on the ground, leaning back and relaxing, picking food off their plates and talking amongst themselves. No one looks hungry, or like they’re afraid their food will be snatched away. They just look… comfortable. 

Fascinated, in spite of his general unease, Dean people-watches. Now that he’s paying attention, he can tell that some of the slaves here are actually working – there’s two or three who are wandering around picking up trash or cleaning tables, and when he looks over people’s heads and into the kitchen, he can see the glint of tags on necks behind the counter as well as in front of it. 

He figures it makes sense. Why house slaves if you aren’t going to make _some_ sort of use out of them? But even as he starts to form bitter thoughts, he realizes there are the same number of workers with badges as there are with the center’s version of a collar. And _that’s_ confusing as hell – why pay people to do jobs that slaves can do?

He lets his eyes wander. Near the entrance of the dining hall, there’s a weird little display taking up a ton of space, from the ceiling to about three-quarters down the wall. It takes him a second to make sense of what he’s seeing. 

Slave tags. A _lot_ of them. 

They’re lined up on hooks, swinging gently when people walk by. It seems like a weird place to store them – why not just keep them in boxes? That same niggling feeling starts to dig at the back of his mind, scratching insistently – 

“Are you new?”

Dean startles, snapping his head around. 

A young Asian man, on the nerdy side, is looking at him with a slightly too eager expression on his face. There’s a plastic ID card clipped to his shirt, so Dean figures he must work here. “I haven’t seen you around! If you want, I can show you how to get food…?”

Dean realizes, belatedly, that he’s supposed to respond to that. “Uh, no thanks. I think it’s pretty self explanatory,” he says, a bit wary as he watches for the man’s reaction. 

Rather than frown at his lack of respect, the young man’s face falls. “Shit. I’m fucking this up already,” he groans, raising his hands up in a conciliatory way. “Sorry to bother you, dude – I’m just gonna… disappear. Yeah.” 

Confusion growing, Dean watches the beta turn around abruptly, his cheeks flushed like he’s embarrassed – like he actually cares what a slave thinks of him. “Wait.”

He whirls back around, a hopeful look on his face. “Yeah?”

“You work here?”

The man groans again, slapping a hand over his forehead. “Ugh. Yeah. Damn, I didn’t even introduce myself, did I? I’m Kevin,” he says sheepishly, holding out his hand. 

Dean just stares at it, hesitating for a beat too long, and before he can convince himself to nut up and shake it, Kevin snatches it back. “Oh – _fuck._ Sorry. Balthazar is going to _kill_ me.”

He blinks. “You know Balthazar?”

Kevin sighs, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. He glances around. “Yeah. He’s my boss. Just hired me for real, actually – it’s my official first day. I was volunteering for a while there, but I mostly just did paperwork, so this is my first time working _with_ you guys, and holy _shit,”_ he breaks off, “you can’t possibly care about any of that. Sorry. I overshare when I’m nervous.”

Dean furrows his brow. The kid seems harmless, young enough to be fresh out of high school, now that he’s looking, and overwhelmed as hell. His eyes are flicking back and forth around the dining hall like he’s waiting for someone – probably Balthazar – to come and chew him out. 

“You wanna sit, Kevin?”

Startled, the kid glances at the empty chair across from Dean. “Oh – really? You don’t have to,” he says, sheepish. “I’m just here to help, even though I’m doing a shit job of it. You aren’t, uh. Expected to make me happy, or anything,” he says awkwardly, clearly parroting some sort of training. 

He sounds earnest, though, so Dean kicks out the empty chair and nods toward it. “I know.” 

Hesitant, Kevin drops into the chair, chewing his lip. “Sorry I messed that up.”

“You did fine,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “You sniffed me out pretty quick, anyway. I’ve never been in the building, before today, so I might actually have needed your help.” 

Keven looks confused, but his face clears as he figures it out. “Oh. Were you staying with staff? Balthazar told me they ran out of room for a while, a few months ago.” 

Dean nods, and Kevin brightens. “Well, now that you’re here, I can show you around! Where’s your room assignment? I could stop by–” 

“I’m still staying with him, dude,” Dean interrupts, shaking his head. “Thanks, though.”

Kevin deflates a little bit, but he smiles. “Oh. Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. Who’s your foster?”

“Castiel.”

Like Claire, that revelation provokes quite the reaction. This time, though, the kid’s eyes widen almost comically. “You – Mr. Novak? You’re staying with _him?”_

I’m _his,_ Dean doesn’t say, but he thinks it. He just nods, shrugging when Kevin ogles at him. “Yeah. For a few months now.”

“But – he’s an alpha,” Kevin says blankly, glancing down at Dean’s tags – he’s probably wondering if Dean’s insane. “I thought…”

“You ain’t wrong,” he admits, snorting. “But I’m comfortable there, now.” 

Kevin blinks. “Oh. Okay. Well that’s… good. Yeah. Wow,” he adds, shaking his head. “Sorry, dude, I don’t mean to get up in your business or anything, but… wow.” He leans forward, excitement replacing his shock. “What’s he like?”

Dean thinks there’s quite the case of fan worship going on here, and it’s a little funny. It’s better than Claire’s blatant suspicion, anyway. And it’s much closer to what Cas actually deserves. 

“He’s…” God, how to describe him? “He’s quiet. And serious. But he’s really… kind. A good guy, you know?”

Kevin leans back, star-struck wonder all over his face. “Wow. I’ve heard all this crazy stuff about him, you know? I started here because I heard from a friend that he was doing good work, but I haven’t met him even once...” He shakes his head. “Lots of people tell me he’s pretty aloof. Is that true?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling a little. “Self labeled hermit, actually.” 

Kevin whistles. “Damn. I wonder how he got into freeing slaves? It seems so wild that a rich alpha like him would–” 

“What did you say?”

Kevin stares at him, caught off guard. He hesitates, and in the meantime, Dean’s heart starts to pound. He flicks his eyes over to the wall of tags. Feels his hands start to shake as he finally adds two and two. 

“Uh. I was just… wondering how he started doing this,” Kevin says carefully, obviously aware that Dean’s starting to freak out. “Rehabilitating and freeing omegas, like we do…” 

Kevin trails off. “Dean?” he asks weakly, confused and concerned, but Dean hardly hears him. 

Freeing omegas. Freeing _him._

God, how the _fuck_ did Dean miss that? 

Everything makes sense, now. The way the employees he’s met talk about how things are changing, the way Balthazar was texting him. The way Pamela keeps telling him he has control over his body and his treatment. The way Cas keeps insisting he’s his own person, keeps insisting that he has to make his own choices.

What did he _think?_ That Cas was going to _sell_ these people? That Cas – kind, wonderful, amazing Cas – would send these people back to the hell they came from when he was done fixing them up? Never. Never in a million fucking _years_ would the alpha have the heart for that. 

Sure, Dean had thought _he_ was safe from that. Had thought that Cas wanted him for himself, that he had a secure place and wouldn’t have to worry about being sold again. He hadn’t bothered to consider what would happen to these other omegas.

And, in the back of his mind, he knows that he had avoided thinking about it on purpose. Because if he doesn't belong to Cas... how can Dean expect to stay with him? How can he expect Cas to actually _want_ him, if he doesn't feel like he has to keep him around out of some misplaced sense of responsibility?

It's a cowardly thought. A selfish thought. But it's the only one in his head.

“Hey, man. Are you okay?” Kevin is asking him, his eyes wide. “You look kinda pale. Should I call – oh. Uh. Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know where his voice is – all he knows is that he’s standing up, all of a sudden, and he’s walking outside, because he can’t. He can’t stay still. He has to move. 

He hardly feels his knee, hardly feels the cold. He just knows that if he stops, he’s going to freak the fuck out, and he _really_ doesn’t want to freak out. 

A laugh nearly gets around whatever is stuck in his throat. He's _already_ freaking out.

He doesn't get far before his voice, low and gravelly, stops him in his tracks. 

“Dean.”

He turns around. Cas is right _there,_ just a few feet away in the snow, concern all over him – he can smell Dean’s distress, obviously, and he looks wary. Maybe even a little scared. He looks like he’s _guilty._

But he doesn’t look confused. In fact, he looks like he knows _exactly_ what the hell Dean is freaking out about. 

Cas takes a careful step forward, his hands raised up to hip height. “I… I should have told you. I know I should have, but–”

“I,” Dean interrupts, his voice distant and _fragile,_ somehow, “want to go home, Cas.” 

The alpha wavers, unsure. “Right… right now,” Dean insists. His voice is shaking. “I… I want to go. We need to go. Because I… I can’t,” he tries to explain, hyper-aware of the building full of strangers behind him, of the snow at his feet and the cold seeping into his flannel, his jacket forgotten in Castiel’s office. 

Cas hesitates, something torn in his expression. "Dean. You _need_ to be free. You can't heal if you're-"

“Please,” he croaks, closing his eyes. "Don't, Cas. Please. I _can't."_ He takes a breath, hardly holding it together. "Please, can we - I just wanna go _home."_

He sways, nausea crawling through him along with a shiver. But after a moment, he feel's the alpha's soothing touch. Feels him wrap his coat around Dean’s shoulders. He’s too out of it to protest.

“Okay, Dean," he says, gentle. "Okay. We'll go home.”

And they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - 
> 
> Mentions of Dean's treatment under Alastair, including the rape. It's nothing graphic, but it is stated pretty bluntly. If you don't want to read about that, skip from "This is the man who..." to "This is not a man."


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choo choo! ALL ABOARD THE ANGST EXPRESS!!! 
> 
> Sorry to keep you folks waiting! It's been a busy day here in Texas. We get some pretty gnarly weather down here - thunder storms, dust devils, tornadoes, weeks and weeks of 100+ degree heat. And we can handle it! But, you know what we AREN'T prepared for? Two inches of snow and any temperature below 32. I've been with and without power off and on all day today. So it's been a long battle to get this bad boy posted. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy. I'll be replying to the AMAZING comments you guys left me very shortly. ALSO! Coming up soon, I'm going to be posting Balthazar's... sorta origin story?? It mostly features him and Gabriel, though it's got a little of Cas in it toward the end. I decided that it had become too long to be part of this fic, so I'll be posting it separately instead :)

Dean doesn’t really remember how they got here. He doesn’t remember getting in, doesn’t remember buckling his seatbelt. He has no memory of Cas starting the car, or of them leaving the lot, or even of passing Meg and the guard shack. 

He feels like he blinks, and they’re halfway home. The road is flying past at a pace that is both far too fast and absurdly slow, and he feels sick watching the trees and the other cars slip past them. He wants to be home right now. Right _now._ But he also knows that this fragile silence between them will only last as long as this drive. 

Cas is _tense._ He can smell it – the alpha is all kinds of riled up, guilty and nervous and maybe even scared. He’s afraid to look over, because he doesn’t want Cas to be looking at _him._ Doesn’t want to face whatever judgement is in his eyes. 

None of his thoughts are connecting. He knows he’s freaking out – he’s familiar with this feeling of detached panic, familiar with the idea that he’s not going to be able to control what happens to him. He _wants_ to process his emotions. He really does. But it feels like every time he reaches for a thought, it darts away just before he can close his fist around it. 

It’s really fucking frustrating, because Dean would _love_ to be able to calm down. One shaking hand comes up to wipe at his face, and he resists the urge to leave it there so he can hide from the world like a child. 

Free. 

Even the _word_ makes his heart rate skyrocket, and he can feel Cas growing ever more agitated beside him. He closes his eyes, swallows convulsively around the panic in his chest. 

Cas wants to free him. 

The choice Dean made when he was just a dumb, scared kid, a choice he thought would never, _ever_ be reversed – a choice that he thought he had come to terms with a long time ago – that’s something Cas has the power to make null and void. That’s something he _wants_ to make null and void. Because of course he does, of _course_ he does; Cas is too good of a person to want to do anything less. 

He’s known Cas well enough to understand that for a while, now, and Dean hates himself for never being brave enough to acknowledge it. Hates himself for being, somehow, _disappointed._

Because, really, Dean should be happy. 

_That_ thought lands like a boulder in a lake. God, he _should be happy._ Of course he should – hadn’t he wished for freedom? Hadn’t he curled up in his stupid little cage after a few measly days of separation from his brother and his dad and everthing he’d ever known, sobbing and begging like a fucking baby because he wanted to go back so badly? Hadn’t he dreamed of a day when he could return to the way things used to be, to the way his life was, once upon a time, all while master after master had used and abused him? Hadn’t he spent what little time he had away from Alastair and his customers in a fantasy world, where there was no collar around his neck, no pain, nothing but sunshine and open roads and his family by his side?

He had. Of course he had – he was too weak not to. 

The thing is, though, that he never actually believed it would _happen._ Not for real.

It had always been one of those thoughts he kept at bay, one of those hopes he ripped up like a weed any time it dared to sprout. He couldn’t afford to let that thought grow roots, couldn’t afford to let it take up any space in his mind – he knew it would have killed him, wanting that. Knew he wouldn’t have made it through a _week_ of nights, if he’d spent his days thinking he was going to be rescued. 

He’d had the odd delusion. Fantasized, once or twice, with a desperation that bordered on hysteria. His dad hunting him down, stealing him away. Bobby picking him up from the cold, hard floor, hugging him tightly, taking him home. But those thoughts had always come when he’d been at the lowest of the low, when he had nothing else to cling to except the delusion that it might, one day, be over. And once he’d managed to sweep and tape together the shattered pieces of himself – once he’d clawed his way back into sanity – he’d always pushed that kind of thought back into the ugly little box it’d come out of, and locked it tight. 

Dean has always known that there was only one way he’d escape. And it wasn’t by running, or by rescue. 

And then, of course, Cas had come along. 

There’s a reason it had taken Dean so long to believe that the man was genuine. A hope like that, like what Cas was giving him… If he’d allowed himself to believe it, only to watch it get snatched away, it would have destroyed him. So of course he’d denied it, of course he’d invented and clung to every possible explanation aside from the simplest: That Cas had rescued him because he genuinely thought it was the right thing to do. 

A few months ago, Dean would never have believed that. But, really, he should have. After all, the alpha has been protecting him from the moment he laid eyes on him. Not thirty seconds after they’d met, Cas had stood between him and the people who made his life a living hell, his teeth bared and his hands curled into fists. It had been bewildering, so opposite of his expectations that he’d been sick with fear and confusion. 

But back then, of course, Dean had hardly been able to wrap his mind around even the smallest of kindnesses. When the strange new alpha had unlocked his handcuffs and helped him to his feet instead of kicking him till he managed to crawl, he’d thought he was dreaming.

And, since then, Cas has fed him, housed him, sheltered him. He has advocated for him, fought for him, stood up for him. Cas has drawn _blood_ for him. He’s protected Dean from anyone and anything who sought to do him harm; he’s even protected Dean from Dean himself. It shouldn’t have been a huge leap of logic for Dean to consider that the alpha couldn’t actually want to _keep_ him, after all that. He should have expected that from the fucking start. 

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t. Because, deep, _deep_ down, Dean knows something ugly about himself. 

He _wants_ to belong to Cas. 

If he had a shred of pride or shame left inside himself, he would have opened the car door and jumped out as soon as he let himself acknowledge it. But Dean’s too much of a coward for even _that;_ so, instead, he’s going to sit here and hate himself. Because his first, knee jerk reaction to Cas offering him the ultimate gift – his own _freedom –_ was not relief, or gratitude, or joy. 

It was despair. 

His first thought should have been of what came _next._ It should have been wild plans to find Sam, plans to hunt down Bobby, plans to hug his gruff uncle and kid brother until neither of them could breathe. It should have been wild daydreams about owning his own car, getting a license, getting a job, making his own decisions; should have been ecstatic joy at the thought of never having to listen to another order and never having to wear another collar or chain. 

Instead, he feels hurt. He almost feels _betrayed._ Because Dean really had believed, for a while there, that he would be spending the rest of his life with Cas. And he’d been okay with that. 

Shit, he’d been more than _okay_ with that. He’d been fucking _excited._

And what the fuck does that say about him? What does it _say_ about him, that he’d rather be the man’s pet forever than live a free life without him? Dean doesn’t understand _why_ he feels this way, only that he does – and that it makes him exactly the bitch that everyone told him he was. 

He can’t help himself, now; Dean curls up right there in the passenger seat. He draws his knees to his chest, presses his forehead to his legs, and tries to keep himself calm so that Cas won’t crash the damn car. 

“I’m sorry I kept it from you,” Cas offers, his voice wrecked and quiet. “I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t have.”

Dean wants to laugh. He really does. Because everything alive inside of him wishes that Cas had kept this to himself for the rest of their natural lives. “Any other secrets like that you wanna lay on me?” he demands, nearly hysterical, miserable and overwhelmed and wishing, more than anything, that he could reverse this day and never let it happen. “Might as well knock everything out at once, right Cas? One and done?”

He means for it to be irreverent. Mean to try and take the edge off of his hysteria by making light of the situation. Except…

Cas’s scent goes five times darker. The smell of his guilt is so overwhelming that Dean, on instinct, wants to roll down the window – he snaps his head over to stare at him instead. 

The alpha, stricken, is chewing on his lip, staring out at the road ahead of them. And right there and then, Dean knows he’s about to drop another bomb, is about to rock Dean’s world _again._ And he doesn’t know if he can take it. 

“Don’t,” he chokes, holding up his hand. He feels sick. “Please, God. Please don’t tell me there actually is something else. I can’t take another fucking thing right now, okay? So tell me that the goddamn guilty look on your face doesn’t mean anything.”

Castiel takes in a long, shaking breath. His hands are tight around the steering wheel. White knuckled. Dean has no idea what could make the alpha look like that – like he’s certain whatever he’s going to say is going to make Dean hate him. 

At this point, Dean doesn’t think there’s a damn thing Cas could do to make him do that. And isn’t _that_ fucked up. 

“What?!” he bursts out, feeling whatever hold he had on himself fray and then snap, the weight of everything finally landing on top of him. _“What,_ Cas?”

The alpha takes a deep breath. He carefully does not look at Dean. 

“What do you know about the Morningstar family?”

* * *

When they finally pull into the garage, Dean does not wait for him to stop the car fully before he is out. He leaves the door open, in his hurry to get away from him – leaves the garage door open too. 

Castiel sits in the driver seat, gripping the wheel, and tries desperately not to cry. 

He hadn’t been able to tell Dean any details. The omega hadn’t let him. As soon as he’d heard that name, he’d shaken his head, curled his hands over his head. He’d literally _whined,_ so overwhelmed and anxious that it had been all Cas could do to not stop the car and come around to the passenger side and scent him. 

His stomach churns. It had been too much to tell Dean about his family on top of everything else. He shouldn’t have, but Dean had _asked,_ and Castiel has never had a poker face that’s worth a damn. And he owes Dean the truth, now more than ever. He doesn’t want there to be any lies between them. 

It’s not exactly a secret that they hold the patent for the GPS chips in slave collars in the States and beyond – isn’t a secret that they’ve worked to make those all but mandatory. It isn’t a secret that they maintain private access to the database those chips are connected to, either, though it’s supposed to be government controlled these days. 

His father had done all he could to popularize the chips in the trade, and he’d been so good at it that they’d become standard government issue. Every collar that goes around a new slave’s neck is another drop in his family’s immense wealth – so, of course, quite a bit of their resources are poured into making sure the trade never ends. Into making sure that every slave that runs gets caught. 

Castiel had known, growing up. Of course he had – how could he not, as the son of one of the wealthiest people in America? He’d _known_ his distant father was in the business of slavery, known exactly how he made his money. And of course, as a child, he hadn’t really cared. There’d been no slaves where he was raised – only paid employees to clean and cook and raise him. So it had been a distant problem, something that he knew, in the back of his mind, was wrong, but didn’t care much about because it hadn’t affected him.

It wasn’t until Castiel had grown into a young man that he’d seen what life was like, for people with that chip in their collar. Wasn’t until he’d stopped receiving his education from tutors and started going to college that he saw what his family had a hand in creating and perpetuating. 

He’d been, to put it lightly, horrified. 

And when Michael had come to him – had tried to pull him into the family business, tried to make him a partner in place of Gabriel, who had, after their father’s funeral, disappeared off the face of the planet… Castiel had disappeared too. He’d taken his share of the inheritance, and cut ties all ties. Changed his last name, changed his identity with the help of Ash, and made sure his brothers would not come for him again. 

He ran like a _coward,_ rather than stay and try and change what he could from the inside.

He hasn’t spoken to Michael or Lucifer since then, and he likes it that way. Gabriel had come out of the woodwork, once he’d heard that Castiel had followed in his footsteps, and they’ve talked infrequently through the years. And when he’d met Balthazar, he’d realized he could actually _do_ something with the blood money he’d been sitting on for a couple years, and together, they’d opened the center. 

But Castiel isn’t foolish enough to believe what he’s done for the last few years is enough to make up for a lifetime of ignorance, and choosing to do nothing at all when he could have made all the difference in the world. 

How many times had Dean run, only to be caught and returned again because of the very technology his family had created?

He takes in a breath, laying his head on the wheel. The car is rapidly getting colder, and his breath puffs out of him in a little cloud of mist. He doesn’t know what he thought would happen, after telling Dean. Doesn’t know how he thought Dean might forgive him for this. 

Eventually, he has to go inside. The omega is nowhere to be found, but Castiel isn’t about to chase him down. The man is entitled to his privacy, to his space, and Castiel doesn’t want to violate it. 

It occurs to him that Dean might not even want to stay here at all, even for the short time it will take for him to gain his freedom. He feels awful for not considering that earlier – for assuming he would want to spend any time here that he doesn’t have to. After seeing the center, after learning what he has learned, he surely wouldn’t want to be _here._

Hands shaking, he closes the door to his office and dials Balthazar’s number. 

His friends answers the phone quickly, already harried. “Goddamn – that kid Kevin already told me what happened. Came running in here, crying his confessions out like I was his bloody priest. Where the hell did you run off to? I was going to corner Winchester and start trying to convince him to see Lafitte–”

“Are there any open spots on campus?”

Balthazar is quiet for a good ten seconds. Then, he swears, his hand slamming down loudly on his desk.

“He – he asked if there was anything else I was keeping from him. I couldn’t lie to him, not again–”

Balthazar groans. “Christ in heaven, Cassie, you couldn’t give the kid thirty seconds to _breathe?”_

“He deserved to know,” he insists, heart in his throat. “I can’t keep things from him. He deserves better.”

“No one’s arguing with that, but maybe you could have waited a good twenty-four?” he snaps, irritated. “Where is he now?”

Castiel closes his eyes, bowing his head. “I don’t know. Probably in his room. He didn’t want to be, um. Anywhere near me.”

His voice has gone quiet, by now, and he knows he sounds like he’s about to cry. Probably because he is. Balthazar must hear that too, because he goes quiet for a moment, and when he talks again his voice is quite a bit softer. 

“He didn’t take it well?”

“Well, he… he didn’t let me say much of anything,” Castiel admits, wiping at his nose. “But he knows who they are, Bal. How could he want to have anything to do with me?”

Balthazar scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know, Cassie. Maybe because he knows you have no control over them? Maybe because he sees you’re doing everything you can to negate what those bastards are doing?”

“But–”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Balthazar snaps. “Don’t assume you know what he’s feeling, for once. Did you even bloody ask him?”

“Well, no, but he–”

“That’s it.” His friend’s tone books no room for argument – he sounds fed up. Exasperated. “I’m going to come over there first thing tomorrow morning. We are going to sit down,” he threatens, “and _talk._ And neither one of you have a choice about that, you understand me?”

Castiel’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He clears his throat. “Balthazar, he basically bolted out of the car before it even stopped rolling. I don’t think he wants to talk.”

“Well, that’s just too bad,” Balthazar snaps. “If he’s really upset with you over something you can’t even control, he needs to have some sense knocked into him.”

Appreciation for Balthazar’s fierce loyalty and fear for Dean war inside of him. On the one hand, it is nice to be defended. On the other, he knows that he doesn’t deserve it. 

“He has a right,” he says quietly. “You know he does. He’s… suffered. Because of them.”

“And I haven’t?” Balthazar growls, his voice deadly serious. “If _I_ can bloody forgive you, he sure as hell can. And you don’t even know what’s going through his head _anyway,_ you daft git.” 

Castiel swallows, but Balthazar doesn’t ease up. “I will _see_ you. _Tomorrow._ Please, for the love of God, don’t do anything stupid beforehand, alright? Give the kid time to breathe. To get his head screwed on straight.”

He takes a breath. No matter what he says, he knows that he’s not going to convince Balthazar to stay away. When the man decides he’s going to do something, there isn’t a damn thing any of them can do to stop it. “Okay.”

“Good,” Bal says gruffly. “Fine. Eat something. And get some bloody _sleep.”_

The demands, harshly snapped, do nothing to change the flickering warmth in Castiel’s stomach. Balthazar cares for him – that is unchanged, no matter how irritated he becomes. “I will,” he says softly, and Bal makes a gruff, approving noise before hanging up. 

* * *

For the first time, Dean locks the door behind him when he shuts it. 

He’s never been brave enough to use the little lock on his bedroom door. At first, it was because he thought it was pointless – of course Cas would have a key. Then, he thought that he might get in trouble for daring to use it. And, lately, he’d trusted Cas enough to have no _reason_ to use it. 

But now, he clicks the thing over to the side and presses his forehead to the door. A quick jiggle on the knob confirms that it actually _does_ work. That shouldn’t surprise him, at this point. 

Cas ain’t exactly pounding up the stairs after him, so he’s not sure why he bothers. He doesn’t actually think the alpha will intrude if Dean tells him he isn’t welcome. But something inside of him wants that extra bit of security, right now. Something inside of him _needs_ it. 

Hands shaking, he slides the covers off of his bed on the floor and tosses them on the ground. Feeling more than a little insane, he grunts and strains and lifts the mattress off the floor until it’s tipped up against the wall, ignoring the sharp pain in his knee. Now, there’s a little lean-to against the wall, just enough space for him to crawl in and curl up. It’s pathetic, but he feels safer this way. More hidden. 

He closes his eyes. 

_Morningstar._

Of course Dean knows the name. Every slave knows that name. They’re the reason none of them can escape, the reason slaves don’t generally try and run away at all. The microchip that was inside of his collar – the one Alastair used to hunt him down and drag him back to Hell – is produced, sold, and regulated by them. 

And _Cas_ was a Morningstar.

He’d connected the dots as soon as Cas had said the name. It made perfect sense, after all. Cas has all this money, all this influence – that doesn’t come from nowhere. Neither does the hatred he’d seen in the man’s eyes when speaking of his family. The guilt in his scent. The disgust he holds for bullies, for people who take advantage of people like Dean. 

Not sure what’s possessing him to do so – not sure why he wants things to hurt _more_ than they already do – Dean takes his phone out with trembling hands and shakily taps in the name. A Wikipedia article pops up instantly, and, heart in his throat, Dean clicks it. He’s not sure what he’s hoping to find on the page, simply entitled _Morningstar Incorporated._

He scrolls past the company information – the products they sell, the lobbyist and political action committees they fund, the contracts they hold. The _services_ they provide. He knows all of that already. He’s been watching people use their _services_ since he was fourteen; his Dad, on a drunken ramble, had let it slip that he was hunting slaves using their GPS tracking data. Dean’s good and familiar with what the Morningstars _do –_ he’s just not sure who they _are._

Identical in nearly every way, it is only their contrasting styles that set the eldest two brothers – co-CEOs – apart. Michael wears a sensible black suit in most of his pictures, while Lucifer sports flashier outfits. Whites and reds and blues. They are alpha in every way imaginable, and Dean shudders just looking at their cold, sharklike smiles. He does not, at all, see even a passing resemblance between them and Cas. Nor does he see the resemblance between him and his late father, dead over a decade ago now. 

The younger brother – Gabriel – has fewer photos. Their junior by a few years, the man’s face is softer, somehow less cold. Most of the photos on the page have him with a drink in hand at some event or another, wearing a flashy shirt and a shit-eating grin. He’s a beta, and Dean thinks that might be part of the reason that the shorter bio of _him_ ends with an abrupt estrangement from the company. Apparently, Castiel isn’t the only black sheep. 

Cas himself is just a footnote at the bottom of the section about the family. _Castiel Morningstar is a confirmed half-sibling of the Morningstar trio. He is not active in the company._

And that’s it. Nothing else. 

Dean can figure out the rest. If what Cas said was true, he wasn’t raised like his siblings. It isn’t that hard to believe that someone like his alpha would have a stronger moral compass than the rest of this fucked up family – and it also isn’t that hard to believe that he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with them. Dean’s not exactly surprised he’d change his name and deny any relation to just to escape being lumped in with people like that.

He feels his heart twist in his chest. How awful must it have been, to grow up alone, and then to find out the only family you had was supporting and upholding a system that made livestock out of humans? Dean was alone because he _had_ no other choice, but Cas… he’s going without his kin just because he decided he had to. 

And what a difficult choice it must have been. Nothing is more important to Dean than family, and he imagines that, no matter how fucked up they might be, it would be hard to do. 

Dean’s not an idiot. He knows that Cas is carrying around guilt for something that has nothing to do with him, knows that the alpha is trying to shoulder the responsibility of fixing what his brothers are so gleefully and skillfully breaking. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the alpha wants to erase sins of his kin, one slave at a time. 

And that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it? Cas _is_ doing the right damn thing. Any way you slice it, the alpha is morally, spiritually, and fundamentally _righteous._ Dean isn’t too far gone to know that human beings were not meant to be owned, isn’t too far gone to know that the work Cas and his crew are doing is noble and _good._

His first wild, pathetic thought had been to beg. To plead with Cas to keep him, even though he doesn’t want to. But he can’t do that – _especially_ not now. It is the antithesis of everything Cas believes in, and asking that of him wouldn’t be fucking _fair._ He understands, now, where so many of Cas’s fears come from, understands that he’s terrified of becoming his family. Keeping Dean – even if Dean _wants_ to be kept – is probably Castiel’s worst nightmare. 

Dean can’t ask him to disregard everything he believes in just for _him._ He’s going to have to get it together, because if Cas doesn’t free him… he’s never going to be happy. And he doesn’t deserve to have to take care of Dean for the rest of their lives.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Dean curls tighter into himself. The thick mattress and the blankets make it so that all he can hear is his own stupid, weak sniffling and hitching breath. 

He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t _want to leave._

God, he _loves_ Cas. 

That has been the other big realization of the day – why not add one more, right? But this one hadn’t hit with nearly the same weight. Dean has known for a long time that he trusts Cas with his life, has known for a long time that he will do just about anything for this strange, kind alpha. And for Dean, loyalty is not far from love anyway. 

Still, it had taken this – the realization that he will not actually get to _keep_ what he has found – to make him realize it. He loves Cas. Loves him so fucking much that it hurts. 

And how could he _not?_ How could he not love a man with so much kindness and goodness inside of him? How could he not love him all the _more,_ knowing where he came from, knowing what he had the potential to become and being _himself_ anyway? Dean is so far gone for this man that it’s not even funny. 

But. 

Cas can’t feel that way about him. He can’t. Because Dean is just his slave, and he’s going to stay that way until he can man up and start chasing his own freedom. And even when he has it – and he has no doubt that he will, has no doubt that Cas won’t stop until he does – he knows he won’t ever be good enough for this man. 

People don’t fall in love with broken things like Dean. Pity, sure. Sympathy. Maybe even friendship, of a sort – or at least an accidental scent bond. But not love.

He feels his lips turn up in a bitter smile. It _would_ be just his luck, to fall ass over tea kettle for a man who is never going to be able to feel the same. But he guesses that’s okay. Dean’s kind of used to this – to loving people more than they’re ever gonna love him. 

And if there’s one thing Dean’s good at, it’s sacrificing what he wants for the people in his heart. 

* * *

Nausea dissuades Castiel from keeping his first promise to Balthazar, and insomnia keeps him from the second. 

It’s close to four, by the time he gives up on rest completely and wanders out of his room. He trudges to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water. Stands over the sink and stares down into it blankly, thoughts whirring back and forth in his head on the same hamster wheel they’ve been on all night long. 

Dean, it turns out, isn’t sleeping either. 

The back porch is the last place Castiel expected him to be – it is still quite cold, and dark, and Dean has never shown any inclination to go outside before now. So it shocks him, when he looks up and catches sight of the omega sitting on the first step down, hunched in on himself with Castiel’s jacket still around his shoulders. 

His first instinct, of course, is to rush out there and usher him inside. To gently chastise him for sitting out in the cold. To warm him up, to make him drink soothing tea, to scent away his distress. But Dean is going to be free, soon – Dean needs to be able to make his own choices. 

And Dean knows who he is, now. Knows the blood that’s on his hands.

So, instead, he picks up a blanket and goes outside to join him, hoping like hell he won’t be turned away. 

The omega’s shoulders cinch together when Castiel drapes the blanket over them, but it’s only a moment before he relaxes and hitches the quilt around himself more firmly, shivering a bit. He doesn’t look up, still lost in his own thoughts. And, ignoring the urge to fill the air with reassurances and soothing words, he lets the silence reign. 

“How long?”

The question is flat. Emotionless. It sounds so dead, so opposite of the vibrancy that he has come to know from Dean, that it sets off all his alarm bells. 

“What do you mean, how long?”

Dean takes a slow, deep breath, like he’s holding himself together by the barest of threads. “How. Long,” he repeats, still not looking at Castiel, a muscle twitching in his jaw, “do I have left. With you. Here.”

He reminds himself that that question should not hurt. Reminds himself that Dean has gone over a decade without the faintest glimmer of hope for freedom – of _course_ he’d be eager to leave, now that it’s in sight. Of course he wouldn’t want to be around Castiel, knowing what he now knows about his family, about who Castiel came from. 

But, no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise, it _does_ hurt. Because he never wants to lose Dean. Deep down, he knows that there is something ugly inside of him, something that whispers to him that the only way Dean will ever stay is if he has no other choice. He can ignore that voice – _is_ ignoring that voice – but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s there. It’s all the more proof that Dean needs his freedom, he knows. 

So he pushes away the agony at the thought of a Dean-shaped hole in his life, and clears his throat. “Once we start the process, it usually takes a few months at the very least. There’s all kinds of tests you’ll need to pass, evaluations you’ll need to score highly on.” 

Dean doesn’t react to that. There’s no spark of curiosity, no stubborn glint in his eye when he’s presented with a challenge. He just looks pale. Haggard. “A few months,” he repeats blankly. He stares out into the dark yard, his breath slowly clouding around him. “That’s it, huh?”

Castiel’s stomach hurts. “I know it seems like a long time,” he offers, not sure what else to say. 

Dean just laughs – a short, strangled sounding noise that makes him want to hide from this forever. “I know, Dean. But it will go by faster than you think, and then you’ll be free.”

Dean still won’t look at him. “Free.” He repeats it like it’s something foreign, an unfamiliar word in an unfamiliar language. Castiel understands that – he’s sure the man is still wrapping his head around it. Is still feeling a little intimidated by it. Even if he no longer wants to be with Castiel… Dean, he’s sure, would not want to be all alone.

Tentative, he reaches out to touch his hand. “We… If you wanted to. I could try and find Sam, or–”

_“Don’t.”_

Dean is sure staring at him now. The blood has drained from his face, his eyes are wide. He looks _terrified._ He snatches his hand away from Castiel’s touch, shaking his head. “Don’t. _Please_ don’t.”

He feels like he just swallowed glass. This rejection stings, even though he knows he deserves it. “I… I’m sorry, Dean. I won’t.”

Dean just stares at him, his eyes wet in the dim light from the window. “I can’t –” He shudders, closing his eyes again. Turning away. “I can’t.” 

Swallowing, he pulls his hand away, tucking it into his lap. It is the opposite of everything his body is screaming at him to do, but he does it anyway, because that’s what Dean wants. 

The omega takes a breath. Presses his palms to his eyes, mouth trembling. “I’m – I’m just not ready for that. Sorry. I know that’s… I know I’m a fucking coward. But I can’t…” 

“Dean,” he forces out. “That’s not cowardly. I understand.” And he does, even if he wishes it were different. Perhaps, in Dean’s place, he wouldn’t want to touch Castiel either. 

Dean half laughs – a bitter sound. “I guess you do. You have a good reason, though. _I’m_ just a pussy. I can’t – I don’t want to face him like this, you know?”

Frowning, Castiel cocks his head to the side. It occurs to him, much later than it should have, that he’s missing something crucial here. “Are you… do you mean your brother?”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, Cas. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

Dean snarls at him, though there’s much more hurt and frustration in the look than anger. He gestures at himself, hunched over on the stairs, eyes wet. Glares out at the yard with self hatred in his eyes. 

Slowly, it starts to sink in that Dean is not, somehow, adverse to his touch. He’s upset about the thought of contacting his _family._ And that’s so unexpected that Castiel has no idea what to do with it.

“You believe he would be ashamed of you?” he asks slowly. Dean flinches like he’s been slapped. 

“Of course he would,” he whispers. “How could he not be? Last time I saw him, I was his bigger, older brother, I beat up his bullies, I took _care_ of him–” He shakes his head, a tear streaking down his cheek that he angrily wipes to the side. “And now, I’m sitting out in the cold because I can’t even sleep alone. I’m so scared to be free that it’s making me sick. And, every other fucking _minute,_ I’m crying like a little bitch over something that no one even cares about.” He scoffs, voice thick with tears. “So, yeah. I’m sure he’d be _so_ glad to see me.” 

Castiel’s chest aches at the _pain_ in the air, aches at the scent of Dean’s shame. “I should have looked him up the instant you took off my collar,” Dean whispers, shaking his head. “Shoulda… shoulda run away the first chance I got.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Castiel says quietly, “I’m very glad you didn’t.”

Dean scoffs at that, shaking his head with an angry laugh. “Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t have to deal with this. Deal with _me.”_ His face screws up as he speaks, as he presses his fist to his chest. “I – I know you want me to be free, Cas. And I’m gonna – I’m gonna try. I know I’m being a real bitch about it, but I will. Because, God. You really, _really_ don’t deserve to have to live with this anymore.” 

He shakes his head, a wry smile on his face that cuts like glass. “You’re too good to have to deal with me, man.”

And suddenly, Castiel can’t quite keep himself in check anymore. He breaks the promise he made to himself moments ago and reaches out to touch Dean, his hand landing on the man’s shoulder. And Dean doesn’t flinch – doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t smell scared in the slightest. In fact, he leans _into_ the touch. 

Castiel, with a clarity that is almost painful, understands that he’s gotten this _all_ wrong. 

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” he murmurs, shocked at the realization, and knowing, immediately, that it is true. 

The wretched, broken expression on Dean’s face says it all. 

“Oh, Dean,” he says, and he comes closer. Wraps his arms around the trembling man next to him, holds him to his chest. And Dean only lasts a moment before he turns into him, burying his face into Castiel’s neck and hitching out a sob. 

“I care for you more than I can say. And you can stay here as long as _you_ want to stay here,” he says, his voice wrecked from the tears he himself is holding back. God, he should have known this is how Dean would feel – should have known that, to the omega, freedom would only be another form of self sacrifice. 

He just hadn’t anticipated that Dean would want to be anywhere near him, given the choice to be somewhere else. 

“You have as long as you need,” he says, voice low, “to heal. I will never turn you away.”

“I can’t stay, Cas,” Dean mumbles into his shirt. “I’m – I’m like _poison.”_

Castiel laughs, something caught in his throat. “Poison. You know who I came from – _what_ I come from – and you think _you’re_ poison?”

But Dean just shakes his head, the simplicity of his words making them all the more impactful, shots to Castiel’s chest that feel so good they hurt. “You ain’t your family, Cas. You can’t blame yourself for the shit they’ve done.” He pauses. _“I_ don’t blame you for it . You know that, right?”

Biting his lip, Castiel can only hold Dean closer. Can only bury his nose in Dean’s hair. “I know that now,” he manages, nearly choking on the words. 

Dean is quiet against him, at that. When he pulls back, his eyes and nose are red from the cold and from crying. He looks at Castiel like he’s putting together a puzzle with no picture on the box. “You… shit, Cas. You really thought I’d hate you, didn’t you?”

Castiel closes his eyes. “I’d hate me,” he says softly, and his voice only gets quieter when he admits, “I… hate me.”

Dean’s palm on his cheek makes his eyes fly open – makes his heart jump to his throat. He’s looking at Castiel with so much trust in his dark green eyes that it could kill him. “You shouldn’t.”

His eyes fill with tears so fast it’s like someone turned on the faucet, and Dean watches them drip down his face with a raw sort of sympathy. “I’m selfish, though,” he chokes, shaking his head. “Because, despite what you seem to think, I want you to stay here forever. Even if it is the worst possible thing for you.”

Dean’s palm is still warm on his face, but his voice catches in his throat. “Really?”

Castiel smiles, very tremulous and more than a little guilty. “I dislike what it says about me. But, yes. Very much so.”

“Even if I’m free? Even if I don’t _have_ to be here?” Dean checks, voice shaking a little. 

“Even more so, then,” he confirms, and watches as disbelief and hope wage a war on Dean’s face. “I never wanted you to think that you had to stay just because I wished for it, and that is why it’s taken me so long to say so. But, Dean, if you’ll have me,” he says, palms up, hands spread wide, “You’ve got me. For however long you’ll stay.”

And Dean’s face crumples up, fresh tears falling from his eyes. He takes in a breath – a long, sharp gasp, like coming up for air. “I’d, um,” he says shakily, hands trembling. “I think I’d really, really like that, Cas. I’d like to stay.”

“Then you will,” Castiel says, and it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you were maybe hoping that I'd draw out the angst a little longer, I know. I just didn't have the heart for it! 
> 
> Coming up next: A chapter from Balthazar's perspective, some heavy talks, and come well deserved fluff. Keep warm, my friends!


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from the North Pole! I'm just kidding. The snow has melted, and Texas is mostly back to normal - however you define that. I was one of the lucky people, I think! I lost power for the majority of the week, but I had running water the whole time, and my house didn't flood. So, yay! 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I thought people would be mad at me for not drawing out the angst last chapter, but basically everyone who commented proved me wrong, lol. I'm glad you guys liked the way I handled it. The first part of this chapter is from Balthazar's point of view, and the second is from Dean's. I STRUGGLED with this bad boy - mostly because of internet and power issues, lol. Somehow, though, I still managed to finish it semi on time! If you spot any typos or obvious errors, please let me know so I can fix them :) 
> 
> SO many comments on last chapter - I can't wait to reply to you guys. Right now I'm scrambling to try and get back to real life, but I promise I will get to them! Thank you for all the encouraging words. Stay safe out there!

Digging in his pocket for his keys, Balthazar stomps his feet to knock off the ice and lets himself in the door without announcing himself. He knows Cassie won’t mind. He doesn’t often ring the bell, after all – the last time he’d visited, he’d done so only for the kid’s benefit. 

There was a time where Cassie’s door was revolving, for how often he was coming and going. The alpha had given him a key after just a few days of his initial stay in this house, and he’d never asked for it back, even after he’d moved out. Balthazar had also never offered. It has become one of many silent understandings between them, one of a million unspoken exchanges of trust. 

The domestic sounds of someone cooking breakfast are familiar enough that he is thrown back, for a moment. He remembers many mornings like this, where he’d wander out of his bedroom and sleepily accept whatever insomniatic creation his odd landlord had whipped up in the early hours of the morning. Those meals, too, had been mostly silent; Cassie was even less adept at small talk and idle conversation than he is now. When he’d finally accepted that the alpha truly didn’t expect much of anything from him, it had been a welcome relief to realize he did not constantly have to perform for an audience. 

He sheds his jacket and scarf and moves through the den quietly, not sure whether the kid is still sleeping upstairs – and it’s a good thing he does, because as soon as he rounds the corner he realizes Dean is knocked out cold on the couch instead. The only thing visible is the top of his head, peeking out from under his blanket. He doesn’t stir when Balthazar moves past, and he suspects that has a lot to do with the emotional whiplash the kid must have gone through yesterday. 

It’s nice, though, that he’s downstairs, rather than barricaded in his bedroom. Obviously, he’ll have to do less damage control than he thought – he dismisses the little speech he’d prepared about Cassie’s innocence with relief. Now, he’ll just have to see if _Cassie_ needs his head pulled from his ass. 

Cassie has his back to him when he finally sidles into the kitchen, but he gestures vaguely to a familiar, empty mug near the full pot of coffee. Balthazar fills up what had become _his_ cup, all those years ago, and sits down at the table quietly, content to watch the alpha nudge at the sizzling sausage and stir little fried potatoes. 

“You’ve gotten better at that,” he comments idly, sipping from his steaming mug. 

The alpha hums. “Low bar,” he muses, tone mild. 

Considering he’d managed to burn water when he’d first attempted to cook Balthazar a meal, he can’t disagree. Still, it’s nice to see growth. 

When the food is cooked, he looks back at Balthazar questioningly, covering the pan and nudging it away from the burner when he shakes his head. Yawning, he fills up a cup of his own and joins him at the table, falling into his customary seat. The bags under his eyes could be sold by Prada. 

“Long night?”

Cassie looks up at him blearily, rubbing sleep – or lack thereof – out of his eyes. “Yes. Though, not as long as I’d feared.”

Balthazar jerks his head toward the sleeping omega in the other room meaningfully. “He came around?”

His friend’s eyes linger in that direction for a long while. “He doesn’t blame me at all.” The alpha’s voice is quietly stunned. “I don’t think he ever did.”

Balthazar can’t help but be relieved by that. He’s long since forgiven Cassie for his perceived sins – long since realized that there wasn’t much to forgive in the first place. He’s glad that the kid seems to have skipped right over the period of cynical suspicion he’d struggled with when he’d discovered the man’s origins. Then again, he’s had quite a bit longer to get to know him. 

_“That_ surprises you,” he observes, struggling valiantly not to say _I told you so._

Cassie makes a small, helpless noise, his hands tightening around his coffee cup. “I thought he’d hate me, Bal. I just kept thinking about how often he ran – how often he got caught.” His friend’s face is pale. Sick. “I’ve got no doubt he could have escaped, if not for the Morningstar chip.”

Balthazar shrugs. “If your sire hadn’t invented it, someone else would have. And it’s got nothing to do with you, as I’ve said approximately one _million_ times.”

“Still.” He sighs, sipping his coffee. 

Balthazar lets them both sit in silence for a good while, until the alpha seems a bit more awake. “Does he often do that?” he asks, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. 

“What? Sleep there?” Cassie frowns. “It’s happened a few times, now.” 

“Is he not nesting in his room?”

The alpha frowns harder. “I… I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem comfortable on the bed. I moved the mattress to the floor,” he continues, a distant look in his eyes as he thinks about it, “but I’m not sure it helped much.”

Balthazar sighs. “I’m sure he’s got a million and one issues with sleeping in a bed.” Cassie just looks sad at that, so he changes the subject. “Good that he’s sleeping on the furniture at all, though. I know kids like him tend to take longer with that bit.”

For some reason, that causes Cassie to blush. Balthazar raises an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. 

“I, um. He usually… falls asleep elsewhere,” the alpha mumbles, quickly taking a sip of coffee. 

A grin creeps over Balthazar’s face. “You _carry him?”_ he asks gleefully, stopping just short of rubbing his hands together like a supervillain. 

Behind his mug, Cassie’s face is bright red. He mutters some inaudible defense, but Balthazar ignores it. “That’s _adorable,”_ he coos, dropping his cheek into his hand as he teases. “Positively _disgusting.”_

Cassie gives him a dirty look over the top of his cup, but he’s saved from being terrorized any further by a rustling in the den. Winchester has decided to join the living, apparently. The way that the alpha’s entire attention is focused on him, _instantly,_ is enough ammunition to last Balthazar several weeks. 

“Cas?” 

Dean’s sleep-rough voice is a little unsure. He’s probably already noticed the addition of a new person’s scent in his space. _Balthazar_ certainly remembers the hyper-aware state of being he’d maintained for the first few years after he’d been freed. 

“In the kitchen, Dean,” Cassie says. His voice has taken on a subtle, soothing tone. “Balthazar is here, too.”

“Oh. Okay,” he mumbles, clearly still half asleep. “I’mma go shower.” 

“Breakfast is ready when you’re done,” the alpha says, smoothly granting Dean’s not-quite-request. This, too, Balthazar remembers – the tentative space between understanding that he _can_ do what he wants without permission, and working to actually believe it. It isn’t long before they hear him traipse up the stairs. 

“He has got you wrapped around his _finger,”_ Balthazar teases, laughing when Cassie glares at him. The alpha, tellingly, doesn’t disagree. Snickering, he leans back in his chair. “Alright, alright. I’ll hold off on the teasing till later.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Cassie says flatly. After a moment, though, he relents, sighing. “I’m worried about him.”

“Why’s that? Seems like he’s handling things pretty well.”

The alpha’s eyes linger on the cup between his hands. “He doesn’t seem _keen_ on the idea of freedom, Bal. More like he understands that he’s _supposed_ to want it… but I don’t think he really does.” 

He settles back into his chair, blowing a long stream of air out of his mouth. “That’s not all that uncommon, with cases like his,” he points out. He _knows_ Cassie knows that, but it can’t hurt to remind him. 

“Yes, but…” He chews on his lip. “I don’t want to force him into it. If he does it just to please me, it sort of defeats the purpose…”

“You want me to talk to him?” he offers. It’s what he’d been planning to do anyway, but there’s nothing wrong with letting the alpha think it’s his idea. It’ll make him feel proactive, he figures. 

Relieved, Cassie nods. “Would you mind? I’m just not sure how to…” 

“Level with him?”

The alpha nods again. “I think I’ve convinced him he won’t be kicked to the curb as soon as he’s decollared, so to speak. But I _don’t_ know how to convince him that he… _deserves_ his freedom.” He rubs at his face, betraying his exhaustion. “It’s obvious to _me_ that he does. But Dean doesn’t see it that way.”

Balthazar understands, to an extent. He can’t say he ever _wanted_ to serve, but there is a degree of security in it. A degree of purpose. “He’ll come around.”

“You think so?” Cassie says hopefully, letting his hand fall into his lap. 

“Yes. I don’t know him as well as you do, obviously, but he seems a little too spirited to want to stay in this limbo forever.” He suspects that there are some complications – some bits of guilt that the omega is carrying around. Bits of guilt that are convincing him he deserves this. Once he susses those out and sets him straight, he’s confident they’ll be able to start nudging Dean in the right direction. 

Now, it’s just a matter of actually _doing_ that... 

* * *

Dean does not quite manage to sit at the table during breakfast, but he doesn’t camp out on the floor either. Instead, he finds a nice middle ground, leaning back on the counter as he holds the plate in one hand and eats with the other. All in all, it’s a very good attempt at hiding his fear of the furniture. Balthazar would applaud him for it, but that would ruin the illusion. 

He makes small talk about the center with Cassie to fill the silence, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean follows the conversation. He hasn’t asked any questions, thus far, but Balthazar can tell that he’s curious. It bodes well. 

“Jody,” he continues, dipping a potato in a bit of ketchup, “thinks she’s found a potential pick up. Young girl, only been in the trade for about six months. Paperwork says her name is Kaia.” 

“And she’s already back at auction?” Cassie asks, concern deepening his voice. 

“Apparently she _bit_ her last owner. Hard enough for stitches.” 

The alpha winces, but Balthazar knows better than to think he’s expressing sympathy for the alpha in question. More likely, he’s thinking of the harsh _correction_ that the kid would have gone through after that. “Do we have room?”

“Yes. That brother-sister pair from the private auction just hung their tags. But Jody’s toying with the idea of taking her home to foster. She thinks Claire could use the company.”

Dean speaks up, finally. “That kid’s a pistol,” he comments. At Balthazar’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs. “I met her after my appointment with Pam. She was…” 

“Prickly,” Balthazar finishes. “Yes, I’m familiar. She verbally filleted me when I tried to interest her in an appointment with Laffitte. Tough nut to crack.” 

He brings up the topic casually, wondering how Dean will react. Predictably, the younger omega scowls a little at the mention of the therapist – though he keeps his opinions to himself. He just shrugs, retreating back to silence. 

Balthazar suppresses a sigh. He lets it go for now, not keen on putting him on the spot with Cassie hovering. The last thing he needs is the two of them starting an angst filled feedback loop. 

“Reminds me,” he says, intentionally mild. “Jody said she needed you to go over the paperwork. She’s got a few things she needs you to sign – I’d check your email, if I were you.”

Cassie, of course, immediately understands what he’s getting at. He glances at Dean. “Would you mind, Dean? It won’t take me long.” 

Dean blinks. “Sure, Cas. That’s fine,” he says slowly, confusion creeping over his face. 

He flicks his eyes toward Balthazar. The omega catches that he’s being set up faster than Balthazar anticipated – he can see the exact moment he gets it, his expression clearing into something a little cooler than before. “I’m sure Bal and I can find something to talk about while we wait for yah.”

Cassie smiles at Dean, and instantly, his hostility fades. The smile he gives back is small, but genuine – the first one he’s caught from the kid, now that he thinks about it. 

It occurs to him, belatedly, that Dean might be as wrapped around Castiel’s finger as the alpha is around the omega’s. He’s not sure why that surprises him. 

* * *

When they’re alone in the kitchen, he cocks his head back and stares at the younger omega appraisingly. “Nice to see you haven’t run for the hills.” 

Dean scoffs, turning toward the sink. He starts washing his plate. “Why would I run?”

“Oh, you know. Could be the fact that your alpha in there is blood related to a couple of real life supervillains.” 

Dean stiffens. He turns around, already glaring, and Balthazar has to suppress a grin. “That’s got nothing to do with Cas,” he snaps. 

Balthazar cocks his head to the side. “It doesn’t?”

 _“No,”_ he says vehemently, narrowing his eyes. “He’s not like them.” 

“How do you know?” he pushes. If he’s honest, he’s a little curious. 

Dean sputters. “Be– Because! He’d never hurt me,” he says confidently. There’s not a hint of fear in his scent. Not a hint of doubt. 

“Yet you thought he’d throw you to the wolves the instant you were no longer under contract,” Balthazar points out. “That, I think, would be considered _hurting_ you.” 

Dean balks. “How did you –” 

“Not hard to guess,” he interrupts, his tone bored. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, because he understands the fear the kid had been feeling. “Cassie would never have done that, kid. He knows exactly what can happen to a slave that gets turned loose before he’s ready.”

“How?” Dean demands, crossing his arms. It’s clear he’s feeling a little too exposed. A little too vulnerable. “How the fuck would he know?”

“Me.” 

Balthazar says it flatly, nearly no emotion in his tone. But Dean looks up anyway – keen as he is, there’s no way he’s going to miss what that implies. “You?”

He does roll his eyes, now. Flicks a thumb over the jagged scar around his neck. “You know I used to be collared, Winchester.”

“Yeah, but…” Dean trails off, obviously feeling a little wrong-footed. “I thought you freed yourself.”

Balthazar scoffs, ignoring the savage wish inside of himself that he actually _could_ have. “I certainly tried. Not precisely a _well_ thought out plan, but I did try. Unfortunately, escaping from a Morningstar estate takes more than a pair of nicked tin-snips.”

Dean blinks. Blinks again, his mouth dropping open as the realization dawns. _Damn,_ does the kid look young. Him and Cassie both do, these days. Balthazar is getting old.

“I can see he didn’t tell you,” he observes needlessly. He doesn’t know if he’s irritated with his friend, or pleased. On the one hand, the tale could have been a good way to earn the kid’s trust – on the other, he’s grateful his life story isn’t being paraded around without his permission. 

“I…” Dean shakes himself. “No. He didn’t. You were… owned? By them?”

He rolls his shoulders, fighting through the wave of nausea that always tries to creep up on him when he thinks of those days. He knows that Dean senses his discomfort – though Balthazar is very adept at hiding his scent, he isn’t quite managing to do so now. “Yes, I was. First by his so-called father, and then by his brothers.”

Dean is staring at him like a bloody deer in traffic, so he sighs, and clarifies. “Not by Cassie, though. He grew up away from the rest of those bastards, lucky for him. I didn’t even really know he existed. Not till I was already free.” 

Dean lets out a breath, nerves dissipating. “Oh. So, then, uh. How did you…”

Balthazar is quiet, for a while. Then he shakes his head, cracking his knuckles as though he is getting ready for a fight. 

“I was… passed along. When his sire died. And after my ill-conceived escape attempt, the twins weren’t really interested in keeping a flight risk. I was foisted onto Gabriel, who also turned out to be... uninterested.” He grimaces. “Only, Gabriel didn’t have the guts to sell me on when he tired of me. He freed me instead.”

Dean’s eyes go even wider than before. “He just _freed_ you? Just like that?”

Balthazar scoffs. Snaps his fingers. “Just like _that._ Made a few phone calls, bribed a few folks, and that was it. No more collar, papers in hand, a scarf and jacket and a couple hundred donated for my trouble. He dropped me off at the nearest motel, pre-paid for a month of nights, and fucked right off.”

He gives Dean a side eye. “And, if it weren’t for your alpha in there, I’d probably have been back on the auction block within a couple of years.” Theft, prostitution, drug charges – you name it, and it could have gotten Balthazar plopped right back into the slave trade had he been caught. And he has no doubt, in hindsight, that he’d have been caught. 

Dean’s face clears in sudden understanding. “Oh. He saved you, too?”

As hard as Balthazar considers his heart to be, _that_ hits him like a linebacker. He’s not too big of a man to admit to himself that he’s jealous of this kid’s ability to trust. Of his ability to hope. 

He laughs, and says, “Sure. And I nearly killed him as thanks.”

He can scent it before he can see it – Dean gets instantly protective. His eyes harden, his muscles tense, and even though Balthazar is obviously no longer interested in doing so, he instantly knows that Dean would do anything he could to protect the alpha in the other room. Birds of a feather, him and Cassie are. 

He raises a hand. “Relax, Winchester. He proved pretty quickly that he was nothing like his brothers. No stabby-stabby necessary.”

There’s a million things he isn’t telling Dean. Castiel had saved him, sure – in a way. Not quite as dramatically as he’d saved this kid, but still. An offer of food and shelter to a whore he didn’t even _know_ , and didn’t even _want,_ counted for a lot. 

Of course, when he’d found out who Castiel _was…_

A million tendrils of hatred that had lived inside of him, festering and spreading until they had been all he could feel, all he could see, all he could breathe – they’d sprung to life all at once. Blinded him, goaded him, screamed in his ear until he’d picked up the closest sharp object he could find and held it against the alpha’s throat. 

Of course, it had taken him about thirty seconds to realize he couldn’t do it. To realize that killing Castiel – a truly _kind_ man, one who was just trying his damnedest to do the right thing – would have been a horrible miscarrage of justice. 

So, he hadn’t. He’d swallowed his pride, worked to push aside his distrust, and had befriended the man instead. And, God, is he thankful he had. 

He doesn’t say any of that, but he thinks Dean understands it anyway. The kid really _is_ quite smart. “Guess we both have some trust issues, huh?” he jokes, apologetically rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

Balthazar laughs at that, waving aside his apology. “I’d say so. Though I’d like to say that mine, at least in regards to Cassie, have been resolved. And yours?”

There’s a soft look in the kids eyes when he glances toward where the alpha is not-so-subtly hiding – soft enough that Balthazar is fairly sure that a certain alpha’s supposedly unrequited love may not be as unrequited as he thinks. “Yeah, uh,” he mumbles, like he can hear Balthazar’s thoughts, “All good here.”

“Good,” he says shortly. “You’d have broken his heart, if not.”

Dean blinks. A blush creeps across his face, and he drops his eyes. Balthazar decides to have mercy. “You know, _he_ blames himself,” he says mildly, sipping his coffee. “For what happened to me.” 

The omega sighs. “Yeah. That doesn't really surprise me,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Never met a guy who takes responsibility for so much that ain’t his fault.” 

Balthazar resists the urge to make a quip about the omega looking in a mirror, sometime, and tries to be a little more subtle. “It makes him hesitant, that guilt. Makes it difficult for him to act freely. He’s always concerned that he’s going to make the wrong decision.” 

Dean nods slowly. “Yeah… I’ve noticed that. He gets all…” Dean makes a face, gesturing vaguely. “Twisted up. Any time he goes alpha, even if it’s just a little.” 

Balthazar hums. “Almost like some unresolved issues are keeping him from moving forward, or trusting his own judgement.”

Dean opens his mouth, likely to agree again, but it snaps shut like a rat trap. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. Crosses his arms. 

Balthazar grins, pleased that the omega connected the dots so quickly. “You know what I think would help him? Therapy. I’ve been bugging him to try it out for years, but it’s as though he thinks he can’t be helped… like his issues are unsolvable. Or, worse, like he doesn’t think they’re bad enough to even _warrant_ therapy... Silly, right?”

A muscle in the kid’s jaw twitches. “Alright, I get it,” he growls. “You can cut the crap.”

“What crap?” Balthazar asks innocently, raising his eyebrows. “All that stuff about Cassie is absolutely true. Just because it might apply to certain _other_ people in the room…”

Fed up with him, Dean pushes off the counter. He snatches Balthazar’s empty plate and whirls around to begin washing it aggressively. “I _don’t_ need therapy.”

“The fact that you’re still scared shitless of being free says differently, kiddo,” he says. Dean flinches. “Not trying to be harsh, or anything, but you’re gonna keep running in circles instead of running forward if you don’t get some help.”

Dean doesn’t turn around, his head ducked low. His movements slow until he’s standing still, the running water the only break in the silence. 

“And what happens,” he says roughly, “if it _doesn’t_ help? What happens if I stay as fucked up as I am? How am I ever supposed to…” 

He trails off. 

“You can’t know until you try,” Balthazar finally says, his voice quite a bit softer than it had been. He knows that he probably pushed too hard, just now – he’s never been good at being gentle. 

Dean doesn’t respond. He recognizes that he’s probably done all he can to convince him, at least for now, but he can’t help but push a little more. “You got a family, Winchester? One you give a damn about?”

He’s as stiff as a board when he replies. “Why does that matter?”

“Because if you do, then you’re not just recovering for _you,”_ he says. “You’re doing it for them, too. Don’t forget that.” 

He knows he’s struck oil when Dean’s guilt clouds the room, rotten and unpleasant. “I ain’t even tried to reach out to them,” he admits softly, hardly audible over the sound of the water still gushing into the sink. “They probably don’t want anything to do with me. Not like this.”

Balthazar finds that _extremely_ hard to believe. Unless he was pressured by that family to go under contract – and it’s been known to happen – there’s no way that he hasn’t left a hole in somebody’s life. A kid like Dean, with a savoir complex a mile tall… he’s willing to bet it was the kid’s choice to sell himself. _And_ he’s willing to bet that he’s been missed every day since. 

“Again, kid,” he says softly. “You can’t know until you try.”

Dean laughs. The sound is bitter. He finally knocks the tap down so water turns off, but he still doesn’t turn around. “You probably think I’m a fucking coward.” The way he says it makes it clear that _he_ certainly believes so. 

“Nope,” Balthazar disagrees cheerfully. “I think you’ve spent a long time being braver than anyone should have to be. You’re entitled to take your time,” he reminds the kid, shaking his head. “Entitled to move slowly. Just so long as you’re _moving.”_

Dean half turns, looking at him over his shoulder. His eyes are tellingly wet. “I just want you to know that, when you’re ready,” Balthazar continues, meeting the omega’s fragile gaze, “you’ve got the support you need. Alright?”

The kid sniffs, turning back around. He leans forward on the counter, his palms supporting his weight as he tries to collect himself. And, after a moment, he does. 

“Yeah. Alright.” 

* * *

Dean makes it without breaking _right_ up until he realizes that he’s going to have to go to sleep all by himself. The thought, for some reason, is enough to drive him out of his room and back downstairs. 

Cas is still watching television, just as he’d been when Dean had gone up to bed. When he gets downstairs, the alpha is sitting right in the middle of the couch, idly scrolling on his phone. “Oh. Hello, Dean. Were you having trouble sleeping, or…”

He goes quiet when Dean kneels down in front of him. And Dean feels bad about it – he really does. He _knows_ that they’ve just spent half last night and most of the morning talking about his freedom, _knows_ that Cas doesn’t want this. Knows that he’s pathetic for wanting it. But he can’t help the urge. Can’t help that a shaky breath finally escapes him when he presses his head against Cas’s knee, can’t help that he feels instantly better when the alpha’s hand comes to rest on his head.

He’s trembling. He’d _love_ to stop. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone, this morning,” the alpha says softly. “I knew Balthazar wanted to speak with you, but…” 

Dean just shakes his head. He doesn’t blame Cas for his own inability to handle a simple conversation. And he knows, as much as he hates it, that it’s one he needed to have. “It’s fine,” he says weakly, speaking directly into the alpha’s leg because he’s too much of a pussy to meet his eyes. “I get it.”

Cas is quiet. After a while, he gently cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Can I come down there with you?”

Dean, with a burst of intensity that frightens him, briefly and fervently finds himself wishing that he wouldn’t. But he knows he can’t say that, knows that what he’s feeling is fucked up. So he just shrugs. 

Cas slides down next to him with a small grunt. He lifts one arm, tips back his chin, and Dean ends up curled around the alpha with his nose buried in the crook of his shoulder. It’s a position that is starting to feel as natural as kneeling. Maybe even more so.

The alpha runs a warm hand up and down his back, quiet. Waiting for _Dean_ to break the silence, probably. Cas, he’s learned, is patient like that. But Dean is just so friggin’ tired that he doesn’t want to. He just wants to sit here, and be held. Wants things to not be so goddamn _complicated._

Eventually, Cas does break the silence, probably sensing that Dean isn’t going to any time soon. “You know,” he says slowly, “I wouldn’t want to impose. But, if you’re having trouble sleeping and would like some company, you will always have it.” He takes a deep breath. “I know it’s been a… difficult few days.”

Dean blinks, sure he didn’t hear that right. After a moment, he leans back, staring at the alpha incredulously. “You think _you_ would be imposing if I asked you to stay with me while I fall asleep?” 

The look on Cas’s face says, yeah. He pretty much did. He seems almost nervous, as though he’s afraid Dean is going to turn him down. As if he would _ever_ be strong enough to do that. 

He shakes his head, a breathless laugh escaping him. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Cas smiles uncertainly. “Is that a yes?”

Dean feels something sprout and bloom in his chest. It's love, he decides - not much else it could be, with how giddy it makes him feel. Like he could take on the world.

He bites back the urge to dismiss Cas's offer, pulls away from the knee-jerk denial that he wants to be cared for. Cas already knows better, after all.

“Yeah, Cas,” he finally says, trying his absolute hardest to keep it together because he’s cried _enough._ “Fuck, I mean. Yeah. If it won’t bother you. I never seem to have any… I mean, I sleep better. When you’re there.” He flushes, tempted to say something light to cover up the power of that statement. But he doesn’t. They both know it’s true, anyway. 

Cas gives him a real smile. “I can make use of the armchair in your room. It will be a nice built-in time to catch up on my reading, I think.” He hesitates for a second, and then adds, “And, truthfully… I’d be glad for the company as well.”

Dean can’t do anything except hug him a little tighter. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” he says, going for _playful_ and landing squarely on _choked up_ instead. 

* * *

When Dean finally disentangles himself and heads to bed, Cas gives him a few minutes to get ready before he joins him upstairs. He’s clearly doing his best not to make it awkward, slowly carrying a full cup of tea for them both into the room, a book under one arm. Dean sits on his little mattress on the floor and wrestles with shame. 

And then Cas looks up and smiles at him. He looks _proud._ As if he thinks Dean is being _brave._

The alpha settles into the armchair after handing Dean his tea and clicks on the lamp sitting on the side table. Dean tries his best to get comfortable on the bed, probably a little too fidgety to fool Cas into thinking he’s relaxed. Sure enough, the alpha is watching him openly, concern plastered across his face. 

“It’s been a minute since I read, Cas, but if I remember right? It helps if you actually _open_ the book.”

The alpha blinks, obviously surprised at the overtly snarky words from Dean. And maybe it’s just because he’s had a stressful couple of days, but he immediately feels sick. “I – Sorry, I just–”

“You’re right,” Cas interrupts with a small smile. He cracks the spine and lays it out flat on his lap, thumbing to his dog-eared page. 

Dean lets lose a breath, glad he’s not making a thing of it – he’s too tired to talk about literally anything right now. But before he settles in and begins reading in earnest, he looks up and studies him. “You don’t mind the lamp?”

Dean has not actually laid down, he’s realizing. In fact, he feels more tense than he had before he’d given up and gone downstairs. He’s not sure why that is, exactly, only that he– 

“Dean?”

He blinks, belatedly realizing that Cas has been waiting for an answer. “Yeah?”

“The lamp will not bother you?”

Dean glances at the offending home appliance. “Oh. Uh, no. No, I sorta… I like to sleep with the light on, actually,” he blurts, face flushing even darker. He snorts at himself, rubbing a harsh hand over his chin. “Fuck, that sounds pathetic, don’t it?”

“I don’t think it sounds pathetic at all,” Cas says instantly, his book apparently forgotten. “In fact, I think it sounds perfectly reasonable. And if nothing else,” he continues, deliberately pretending like he doesn’t notice the flash of gratitude on Dean’s face and in his scent as he picks up the tome once more, “it makes it much easier for me to enjoy my book.”

“Glad my trauma can be of service to you,” Dean replies grumpily, and for a moment Cas balks because he thinks he’s serious – but Dean grins at him, some weird mixture of tentative and mischievous. 

He rolls his eyes, but smiles right back. 

Despite that weak attempt at a joke, though, Dean’s hold on himself is quickly disintegrating. The longer he lays here in bed, the more uncomfortable he gets – and it doesn’t help that he is not at all tired. He’s keyed up, somehow, even though he’s far past exhausted. Sleep seems far away. 

He realizes, abruptly, that he’s clenching the sheets on either side of him in his fists. Letting loose a slow breath, he loosens his hands; but then he has nothing to anchor him to the bed, so he grabs them again. Fuck. _Fuck._

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep his breathing steady. He shouldn’t be scared. He _knows_ he shouldn’t be. He’s safe here – Cas isn’t going to touch him, and neither is anyone else. But he can still feel spiders skittering around inside of his chest, can still feel his throat closing as he thinks about Alastair’s cruel, nasally sneer. His talk with Balthazar has him on edge – has him remembering the shit he’s been through all at once.

God, what the fuck is he _doing_ ? He’s laying here like a little kid, nightlight on, his protector two feet from him, and he _still_ can’t stop thinking about the monsters that he’s convinced himself are under the bed – 

“ _Odysseus inclines his head. “True. But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another." He spreads his broad hands. "We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?”_

Dean’s spiraling thoughts jump off the track at the sound of Cas’s slow, rumbling voice. He rolls over and stares at the alpha incredulously, momentarily separated from his anxiety by this frankly unbelievable person in front of him. 

“Are you… are you _reading_ to me?”

It’s Cas’s turn to blush. He shuffles the book in his lap, his thumb running over the pages in what Dean would swear is a nervous tick. “I was having trouble concentrating – I thought reading aloud might help. I’ll stop, if it bothers you.”

“No,” he blurts, abruptly desperate that he doesn’t. “No, please don’t. It’s not bothering me.”

He blinks, rolling back over so he’s staring at the ceiling again, and it’s a moment before he adds, “But, uh. Could you maybe start at the beginning?”

Cas smiles, shuffles the pages, and does. 

“ _My father was a king and the son of kings. He was a short man, as most of us were, and built like a bull, all shoulders…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think: I'm torn on the little spin off about Balthazar's origin story. It's nearing 20k, at this point, and I want to know whether y'all want me to wait for it to be finished to post it, or if you want chapter installments! LMK!!


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy howdy howdy!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this week's chapter, folks. Things are looking up for our two favorite dudes - they're over the main hurdles, I think. Now it's a matter of starting the process of surrounding Dean with all the folks he loves and who love him... *rubs hands together* I can't WAIT. 
> 
> Hope you are all having a lovely week! I am far (far) behind on responding to comments, but it's my intention to get caught up after I post this bad boy. For those of y'all who care, I've posted a little blurb about the Balthazar mini fic in the end notes. 
> 
> Happy reading!

The days that follow grow ever warmer. 

Spring has arrived. The morning after he reads Dean to sleep, Castiel wakes up in his own bed before the sun has risen. He spends a quiet hour sipping on coffee and watching his breath puff up as he sits on the porch step, enjoying the fresh air even as he shivers. The patches of snow that have hidden the yard all winter are beginning to fade, revealing tufts of wet, brown grass and plants that will soon become green and alive, and he can see fluffed up robins pecking around, looking for worms. 

The screen door creaks, and Dean carefully sits next to him, grunting when he has to bend his knee. He’s wrapped up in a blanket, his hair in sixty five directions and wet from a shower, a cup of coffee in his hands. Castiel still isn’t used to that – to Dean getting his own food and drink. It makes him smile to himself. 

“‘s cold,” Dean complains, scowling at the remnants of the snow as though they have personally offended him. The expression is, for lack of a better term, adorable – the tip of his nose and his cheeks are already pink from the brisk air. 

“You could go inside,” Castiel points out, suppressing a grin at Dean’s grumpy look.

“You’re out _here,_ though.”

He blinks. Looks over at Dean a little more carefully. The omega is hiding his face by taking a sip of his coffee. The tips of his ears are bright red. 

Shoving away the odd, fluttery feeling in his chest, Castiel gently nudges him with his shoulder. “Yes, but I have on a coat. And shoes. Unlike you.”

“It’s seven in the mornin’, Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head. “No decent person puts on shoes before eight.”

“I suppose I’m not very decent, then.”

Dean snorts. “Guess not.”

* * *

Their days fall back into a routine. 

The omega follows him around the house like a shadow, never straying from his side for more than a few minutes at a time. He completes a full shelf of his book organization project, started what seems like so long ago, and smiles a real, bright smile for the first time in days. 

All the while, Dean reaches out. Touches, nearly constantly – brushes a hand here, leans against him there. And though he is, at first, silent more often than he was before, he soon begins to joke. Begins to try and find his footing. 

Castiel can’t begrudge him any of that – he knows it’s been a rough couple of days. Knows that Dean is looking for security and a routine again; knows, by now, that it takes him a while to process big changes in his life. 

There’s nothing wrong with that, he thinks. Castiel himself struggles with change. Nothing is more evident than that when he thinks about how long it has taken him to make Dean feel truly comfortable here. The familiar guilt sits at the back of his mind like a lead weight. 

The days progress and turn into nights. He reads Dean to sleep again, and then again. He can’t help but feel victorious each time Dean relaxes into the covers. Can’t help but feel ten feet tall when his soft, steady breathing morphs into soft, steady snores. 

In the daylight, Dean _seems_ more at ease, though he looks no better rested than before. Castiel tells himself to be patient. To not push, though he wants to. He knows that Balthazar had tried to encourage Dean to consider a session with Benny, and knows that it went over like a lead balloon. After changing so much so quickly, he doesn’t want to pressure Dean to move any faster than he is comfortable with. So, despite Balthazar’s increasingly irritated hints when he checks in over the phone in the morning, he is choosing not to push. 

This evening is no different than the five or six before it. He follows Dean to his bedroom, hands him a cup of tea that he rarely drinks. Dean sets it next to his glass of water on the nightstand – a welcome habit he’s developed. And then he settles down under the covers and closes his eyes, listening silently as Castiel reads through his book, his scent spiraling down from anxious to calm the longer they go. 

Once he’s _sure_ Dean is asleep, Castiel sets the book down in his lap, unwilling to continue the story without him. He’s not sure _The Song of Achilles_ is really the type of thing that will help Dean along on his recovery – it’s not a happy story, by any means. But that hasn’t really seemed to matter. Over the last few days, it has taken Dean less and less time to relax into the mattress as Castiel progresses through the pages. Tonight, he’d fallen asleep before they had even finished the chapter. 

Spending their evenings like this has been… nice. More than nice. It has brought them both peace, he thinks – Castiel has left Dean’s room at the end of each night feeling quietly content. He’s not sure, of course, but he thinks it has something to do with his alpha brain; it’s easier for him to relax when he knows that _Dean_ is relaxed. 

And Dean _is_ peaceful in his sleep, his face smooth, the seemingly perpetual lines and creases erased as he rests. Physical manifestations of his difficult life, put to rest by _Castiel._ It is, somehow, a heady feeling to watch the omega let his guard down – something he’s become eager for. He wants to think that it’s doing Dean some good, this rest – he still looks tired during the day, but perhaps slightly less so. They’ve not talked about it. 

He rifles the pages of the book with his thumb and watches Dean silently, a small smile resting on his face that has become habitual around the omega. Dean’s mouth is slightly open, one hand behind his head and the other resting on his chest, rising and falling slowly. His blanket has slipped down to his waist and his shirt has ridden up to his ribs, and the smallest sliver of pale stomach greets Castiel’s eyes in the low lamplight. He’s beautiful. 

He’s absolutely beautiful. 

Castiel closes his eyes, a small sigh escaping him. He rifles the pages of his book a little faster, then faster, until his hand comes to a rest. 

No matter how much he tries, it is difficult to keep thoughts like that under control. He is well aware that his feelings for Dean are, at best, inappropriate, and he’s trying his best to keep his view of their relationship firmly in the vein of friendship. It’s just… it’s so _difficult,_ at times like this. Times where Dean’s trust is so visible and obvious. 

Dean wants to stay with him, free or not – Castiel understands that now. Believes that now. But that _doesn’t_ mean he’s interested in anything more than their current dynamic. His loyalty is proof of nothing but their friendship, and even the incident in the bathroom – a week ago now – is proof of nothing other than that he is beginning to heal. It makes him _hurt,_ how much he wants to love Dean without limitations. But he can’t. And the reality is that he may never be able to. And Castiel has to make his peace with that. 

Thoughts swirling in never ending circles, he goes down to his bed and tries his damndest to go to sleep. 

* * *

He has to hold back a groan when he wakes up and realizes that only a couple hours have passed. The clock blinks at him, mocking – it’s only three in the morning. Sleep, it seems, is not his friend tonight. 

He tosses and turns for a while before he gives up. Perhaps a quick look in on Dean will help him settle. So, ignoring a slightly guilty conscience, he rolls out of his bed and stumbles into his robe, climbing the stairs as quietly as he can. He pauses in front of Dean’s door, listening until he’s sure there’s silence inside. Tries and fails to convince himself not to peek in on him, knowing that it would probably be considered creepy to do so and being just tired enough not to care. 

Frowning, he rubs at his face and blinks sleep out of his eyes. He pushes open Dean’s door without knocking. And, as he does so, his brain comes back online just in time for him to remember that was a mistake. 

Something in the air, in the _room,_ is _wrong._

In his bed, strikingly opposite of how he’d been when Castiel had gone downstairs, Dean is _scared._

He’s still asleep, but where he’d been sprawled out and loose before, he is curled in on himself. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth a thin line – and he’s _shaking._ Most tellingly, he’s covering his neck, mumbling something inaudible. Castiel doesn’t need to know what he’s saying to understand, though. He knows by tone alone that Dean is pleading. Feels Dean’s terror in the room like a physical force; a looming, red-eyed figure in the corner. 

A nightmare. Dean is having a nightmare. 

He’s kneeling at Dean’s side with his hand on the omega’s shoulder before he can think better of it, wide awake and choking on the scent of his fear _._ The only thought in his mind, right now, is that he doesn’t want Dean to stay in this headspace any longer than he already has. 

When the omega draws in a sharp breath, Castiel lets one out, relieved that he’s awake. But when he opens his eyes to look up at Castiel, there’s no recognition in them at all. They’re empty. Void of everything other than pure, raw fear. 

Stomach lurching, Castiel recoils, struck by the horrifying knowledge that Dean is not seeing _him_ right now. He’s seeing someone that he _knows,_ without a doubt, is going to hurt him. 

As soon as his touch leaves the omega’s shoulder, he scrambles out of the bed. Lands with a dull, sick _thud_ on the carpet, his back to Castiel. 

Horror punches him in the gut when he understands the significance of the position that Dean has dropped into. Head on the carpet as he kneels, hands locked behind his back, legs spread apart. He’s not making a single sound, immeasurably worse than the pleading had been, terror rolling off of him in waves that make Castiel want to vomit. 

“Dean,” he finally chokes out. 

The omega doesn’t react. He’s perfectly still. Eerily so. 

“Dean,” he repeats, softer, his voice breaking. There’s not so much as a twitch. 

Heart pounding, Castiel edges forward, faltering when Dean tenses impossibly farther, his grip white knuckled around his own forearms, his breath escaping in short, sharp pants. He pushes forward, sits at his side and does the only thing he thinks he can. 

His hand is shaking when he places upon Dean’s back. It’s the same anchoring touch that has worked to keep him calm so often in the past, and Castiel _needs_ it to work now. 

But Dean’s jaw just tenses further, the revulsion and terror in his scent far from the calm, gentle fragrance Castiel wreathed himself in before going to sleep. And, despite that fear, Dean doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t apologize or plead. He doesn’t even cover his neck, like he’s done so often in the past. That scares Castiel more than anything. 

It hits him like a tidal wave, the realization. 

This is Dean as he’d been in Hell. Utterly beaten. Utterly sure that no amount of pleading or apologizing will get him anywhere. This Dean _knows_ that he will be hurt, knows that there is nothing left for him to do but endure. His very scent is hollowing out, the sharpness of the terror from before sinking into something closer to _acceptance._ Submission. Sorrow. 

Five _years_. Dean had survived five years of _this._

He swallows around the spikes in his throat and pulls Dean up out of his trained stance, holds him to his chest. Dean goes without protest, a ragdoll in his hands. His gaze is still blank, still unseeing, and it stays that way even when Castiel cards a hand through his hair and whispers that it’s okay, that he’s safe now, that he has nothing to fear. 

And then, without meaning to, he brushes a finger over Dean’s nape – and _finally_ gets a reaction. Dean flinches forward into his chest, a sharp gasp escaping him, hands clutching at his shirt and feet scrambling on the ground as he crowds forward. Castiel has to hold him back by his shoulders so he won’t send them both sprawling to the ground.

“Cas _, help_ me–” 

“I’m here, Dean. I’m here. Please, wake up–” 

The omega’s cries don't stop. His voice _cracks_ with the intensity of his sobs. “Please, Cas. _Cas,_ God, please _._ Don’t let them– _Please–”_

“Dean!”

And the fight leaves him immediately. Dean’s breath hitches in short gasps as his eyes flick around wildly, finally landing on Castiel. There’s still a heart stopping second where Dean doesn’t recognize him, but when he _does,_ it’s all the more devastating. His realization that Castiel is here – that Castiel has _seen this –_ is an obvious and devastating implosion in his eyes. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Castiel says slowly, badly shaken. 

Dean pants harshly, his face pale. “I– you’re not – I thought –”

A shudder rocking through him, he snaps a hand to his mouth and pulls back from Castiel’s grip around his shoulders. “I’m – I’m gonna be sick–”

Castiel drags the small trashcan next to the nightstand over just in time. Dean retches and heaves until there’s nothing left inside of him. 

When he’s done, he stays hunched over the can, his hands wrapped around his middle as he trembles. His face is pale and there’s cold sweat on his neck, physical remnants of the terror from before. He closes his eyes. 

Silently, hands shaking a little, Castiel hands him his glass of water from the nightstand, and Dean takes it woodenly. He doesn’t drink it, nor does he reach out to Castiel for comfort. He just stares at nothing. 

Castiel is quiet for a long time, kneeling next to Dean on the floor of the bedroom. His book is laying in a forlorn heap next to the armchair. Dean’s blankets are half off the edge of the bed, trailing out to him like a reaching vine, half snarled into knots from the omega’s thrashing. The scent of his terror hangs in the room like decay. Like death. 

When Dean finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. 

“Sorry you had to see that.”

Castiel stops himself from blurting reassurances. He takes a breath, and considers his words more carefully. “What did you dream about?”

Dean swallows audibly, still turned away from him. “Not sure you wanna know, Cas.”

Gently, Castiel takes the soiled trash and puts it as far from them as he can reach. He settles against the edge of the mattress, crossing his legs, and tries his best to give Dean time to unknot himself. Tries his best to give him space. “I would like to know. If you want to tell me.”

Slowly, movements hitching and uneven, Dean settles himself against the bed next to Castiel. His hands are trembling as he balls them into fists and stuffs them under his arms. Quiet for a long time, a careful – and maybe intentional – foot of space between them, Dean visibly tries to calm himself. He takes deep breaths, worries his shirt in his hands. Bows his head and presses it into his knees, eyes clenched shut. 

It looks, Castiel realizes, like something he has done many times before. His heart twists. 

“I was back in Hell,” Dean finally says into his knees. “Don’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

He doesn’t take Dean’s defensive words personally – his tone doesn’t match it anyway. It is scraped _raw,_ not angry. “Yes, I figured as much.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. “It was just _him_ at first. Kicked me awake and…” He swallows, the tremor in his hands betraying the faux callousness of his words. “Put me up for use. Same shit that happened all the time, nothing new. Nothing real bad.”

“I would hazard a guess that anything that happened to you in that place would be considered ‘real bad,’ my friend,” Castiel corrects softly. He is ill, thinking about what being _used_ must mean in the context of Dean’s life. Even more ill at the realization that the experience Dean is describing had obviously become commonplace.

Dean snorts, dropping his head against his knees in frustration. “Your feel for what’s _bad_ and what’s just par for the fuckin’ course starts to change after a while, when you’re there. Shit just becomes… normal.”

“Well, it isn’t normal now. Perhaps your brain is remembering what normal _actually_ is, and is adjusting accordingly.” 

Dean makes a choked sort of sound, probably something that’s supposed to be a laugh. He wraps his arms around his legs. Keeps his eyes closed. “Gonna have a lot more nightmares, then,” he whispers. 

More than anything, Castiel would like to reach out and hold him close. More than _anything,_ he’d like to keep the man’s fears at bay. But he can’t. It’s never _been_ more obvious that he can’t. His sorrow for Dean; his shaking, fist clenched rage at Alastair – those emotions are useless if he can’t find a way to translate them into feelings of safety and security for the man he loves.

Eventually, Dean uncurls all on his own, crossing his legs. He sniffs. Scrubs a hand over his eyes, chewing on his lip like he’s debating about something.

“You can tell me, Dean. Whatever it is.”

The omega closes his eyes again. He looks… Sdefeated.” Sick. “Youwere there. In it. At the end.”

Ice lands squarely in his stomach. “Me?”

Dean half laughs, miserable. “Yep,” he confirms, popping the ‘p’. 

The distance between them is glaring, now – it chills him. “Please tell me I wasn’t…”

“Nah. You were in the room, but you didn’t, uh. Touch me. You were just…” 

Dean’s voice goes achingly quiet. “Watching. You were just watching.”

Castiel stomach sinks to the floor as he replays Dean’s frantic words, smells the sorrow in his scent that is here even now. That crack in his voice had been _betrayal._ Dean had asked him for help – had _pleaded_ with him – and his worst nightmare was that Castiel would refuse. 

He feels bitterly, instantly guilty. What has he done to make Dean, even subconsciously, believe that could ever be a possibility?

“Dean, I would _never –”_

“I know,” Dean cuts him off, his voice flat. He looks down at his hands, and his tone softens into something more fragile. “I know. But it’s hard to tell when I’m dreaming. It seemed real to me.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

Dean finally looks at him, a tiny, sad smile curling half of his mouth. “Can’t apologize for Dream Cas, man. That dude is a direct product of this fucked up dome,” he says, tapping his temple. 

Somehow, Dean is managing to sound very much like he doesn’t care. Castiel isn’t fooled by his nonchalant tone, though – not for a second. He can still see the sweat soaking through the omega’s shirt. 

Shaking his head, Dean adds, “That Cas ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” And, while Castiel knows that Dean is just trying to reassure him, he does truly sound like he believes it. It makes something in him unclench. Makes it possible to swallow his guilt and put it to the side. 

“I think I’d still like to strangle him,” Castiel replies darkly, and succeeds in pulling a real, if short, laugh from Dean. 

“ _Really_ glad he ain’t you,” Dean admits after a moment, the crack in his voice returning just a little. With one long, released breath, he leans against Castiel gently, and he is so relieved that Dean still _wants_ to touch him that he feels like he might faint. 

Dean tucks his head down to inhale Castiel’s scent. He can feel the man relax, if slowly, and after a while, he rests his arm over Dean’s shoulder. The omega sinks into him fully, closing his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to _see_ that,” he mumbles. He’d sound petulant if he wasn’t so exhausted. “Would’ve locked the damn door, if I’d known you were gonna come up here.”

Guilt tightens around him. “I’m so sorry, Dean. If I’d known that it would trigger a nightmare, I’d never have opened your door.”

Dean says nothing to that, for a long, pregnant moment. He lets out a long sigh. “You didn’t trigger shit, Cas. I’ve been having nightmares like that for, uh. For a minute.” He swallows. “I wake up on the floor half the time, man. Ever since I started trying to sleep on the mattress.”

He’s relieved, and then horribly _guilty_ at being relieved – while it is a weight of his chest to know that he didn’t kick Dean into a flashback, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t _had_ them. All this tells him is that Dean’s been dealing with them all on his own. 

“I…” Dean’s voice is rough. “It’s better on the floor than it was on the bed frame. And I know I ain’t gotta be afraid anymore. But it’s… it’s hard to remember. Sometimes.”

“I wish you’d told me it wasn’t working.”

Dean makes a small, upset noise. “I didn’t want to worry you. What the hell can you do about it, Cas? ‘Cept lose sleep over it,” he adds pointedly. He sounds so very tired. Older than his years. 

Castiel shakes his head, scooting and sliding his other arm around so that he’s got Dean tucked against his chest more firmly. He doesn’t like the guilt that’s crept into Dean’s tone, and he likes the shame even less. “I’m glad I’m here now.”

Dean scoffs. But he doesn’t pull away. 

* * *

Dean sleeps through breakfast, curled up on the couch again. 

He’d knocked out cold after Castiel had helped him downstairs, ten minutes away from his bedroom enough to calm him down completely. That held true even when Castiel insisted, guiltily, that they stay up on the couch for the sake of his knee. He’d sat down heavily in the corner, and after just a moment of exhausted hesitation, Dean had followed him. He’d curled up on the cushions with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his head in Castiel’s lap. 

Castiel had run his hand through the omega’s hair and stared at nothing, numb, while he’d drifted off. 

He’d had _no_ idea Dean was going through that. 

It adds up, now. The evidence. The way Dean had still looked exhausted in the mornings, the way he never comes downstairs before a long, hot, _scent cleansing_ shower. The nose tickling, lingering smell of his discomfort that he’d picked up on each night in Dean’s room, even after an entire day for the air to clear. The way Dean had avoided his eyes each time he’d asked him how he’d slept. 

He’d known Dean had been through unspeakable things. He’d _known._ But he hadn’t truly understood the depth of his trauma. Or, at least, he’d forgotten it, during the months of separation between him now and the frightened animal Dean had been when he’d first arrived.

It does nothing but make him feel unspeakably guilty. Does nothing but remind him, over and over, that if it weren’t for the Morningstar chip in his collar, Dean would likely have been able to leave Hell behind him before any of that had happened. He cannot stop seeing the blank, sick fear in Dean’s eyes when he closes his own. 

And so he had not slept at all. Had spent the night with Dean in his lap, the omega’s nose buried into Castiel’s stomach and one arm slung around his waist, as though Castiel would ever dream of trying to go anywhere at all. And, while Dean had finally slept peacefully, Castiel had done nothing but wonder how in God’s name he thought he deserved to stay. 

He doesn’t make breakfast, because Dean doesn’t wake up. Castiel isn’t running on enough sleep to want to do it for himself, as hungry as he is. 

Around lunch, Dean stumbles off the couch and disappears upstairs for a shower. When he’s done, he takes one sniff of the air and eyes Castiel suspiciously. “We should eat,” he says pointedly. Castiel takes the hint. 

He insists on helping Castiel put lunch together, even with the lingering pain in his knee and his sleepless eyes, and Castiel can’t muster up the strength to deny him when he looks so determined to solve something. In silence, they split the duties in the kitchen – Dean slicing up cheese and apples, Castiel carefully arranging greens on their sandwiches. They both wash the dishes from the night before. Dean scrubs, Castiel rinses and dries. 

It is domestic. Peaceful. He likes it, and he wishes he could enjoy it without hearing the echoes of Dean pleading with him every time he has a spare moment to think. 

They sit in his office to dine, leaning against the couch with their legs kicked out in front of them. Castiel has bitten off an argument about Dean using the furniture correctly more times than he can count today, and he has a feeling that Dean knows that. He’s been deliberately ignoring him every time he lowers himself to the ground. Not meeting his eyes. Castiel, as much as he wants Dean to be in as little pain as possible, hasn’t had the heart to push it after _already_ pushing him to stay on the couch last night. 

They eat in silence. It’s Dean that breaks it. 

“Balthazar said he tried to kill you,” he says out of nowhere, eating an apple slice. 

It takes a moment for Castiel to understand what Dean is talking about. He stares at him for a second until it clicks into place, and all the while, Dean munches calmly, sprawled out in a comfortable heap. It is an image that is sharply juxtaposed with his memory of Balthazar, still bright after all these years – the hatred in his eyes, the cold press of steel against his throat. 

“I’m… surprised he told you that.” 

Dean shrugs. “He told me a lot of stuff. I think it was his way of trying to protect you.” 

Castiel blinks at that. Sometimes he forgets just how intelligent Dean is – just how much he is able to see through the intentions of others. He supposes that it is a skill the omega has been perfecting for a long time. 

“How do you figure that?” he asks, voice a little weak. 

Dean raises an eyebrow, eating another apple slice before he responds. “I think he wanted to be sure I didn’t have plans to shank you, or somethin’.” 

Castiel can’t help but laugh at that. It sounds a little nervous, he knows. “Do you?”

The omega rolls his eyes. “‘Course not. I’m not an idiot.” 

He says it so easily. So confidently. And while he didn’t ever think that Dean would result to violence, he _did_ believe that the revelation of his kin would be the end of their relationship. So he can’t help but push, at least a little. 

“Balthazar isn’t an idiot, either,” he begins carefully, watching Dean for a reaction. “He had a right to be angry.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, he didn’t. You didn’t do anything to him. And you didn’t do anything to _me,_ either,” he adds, and Castiel is smart enough to know they’re not just talking about generalities. Dean is scent bonded with him too. He is probably very familiar with what Castiel’s guilt smells like.

Again, there is no hesitation in his voice. Nothing to suggest that Dean believes anything other than what he’s saying. 

“My father certainly did. My brothers did.” He doesn’t have the heart to dig into the specifics, doesn’t have the heart to remind Dean how many times his escape was thwarted by the very chip that his father invented, and by the tracking system that his company maintains. 

“And what the hell has that got to do with _you?”_ Dean demands, irritated. “You can’t control the fucked up shit your dad did.” 

Castiel swallows. “I… I could have stopped it. Or I could have _tried,”_ he says, his chest constricting. “After Gabriel left, Michael offered me what would have been his job. He tried to make me a leader in the company. Had I agreed, I could have changed things. Could have _sabotaged_ things. But I ran away instead.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I’m glad you didn’t take it. That life ain’t for you, and it ain’t your burden to bear.” 

“But I–” 

“Fucking with those people,” Dean interrupts vehemently, “would have gotten you killed. You don’t mess with the richest industry in the nation, Cas. You just don’t. You’re just one person, and I don’t care how strong you are – you wouldn’t have been able to even scratch the damn surface. There are too many people making too much money off of it.” 

Castiel closes his eyes. “They do so much harm.” 

Dean scoffs. “Believe me, I know,” he says, and though it’s angry, it’s not accusatory. “You’re preaching to the choir. But you have to let that shit go, man,” he continues, shaking his head. “You do too much friggin’ good to keep beating yourself up for something you can’t change.” 

“But what do I do that _matters? Nothing_ I’ve done even makes a dent in the damage that they’ve–” 

“It matters to _me!”_ Dean breaks in, nearly shouting as he shoves the heel of his palm against Castiel’s shoulder and _physically_ knocks him out of his self-deprecating spiral. “It matters to Balthazar! It matters to all the omegas you’ve helped, all the ones who get to wake up at night and feel safe – some of them for the first time in their fucking _lives!”_

Stunned, Castiel cannot find a word to say. Dean glares at him, eyes blazing. He looks read to take on the world. “The people you help _matter,_ Cas. Every little bit fucking _matters._ You _don’t_ get to say it doesn’t.” 

Castiel swallows. Tries, and fails, to make eye contact with Dean, tries to find a defense or a leg to stand on. But Dean is _right._ Every time Castiel says that he isn’t doing enough, what Dean hears is that _he_ isn’t enough, that the other omegas Castiel has worked to help aren’t important to him. And he’s ashamed to say he’s never thought of it that way before. That’s not how he feels – he knows that every life is precious, knows that every soul is valuable. 

He’s gotten so caught up in the bigger picture – the scale, in his mind’s eye, of the impact his family has had on the world, tipped forever in favor of his brothers – that he has forgotten the importance of each individual weight. 

“And,” Dean continues, just as angrily, “you don’t get to feel guilty that I have _nightmares_ of what my life was like _before you._ God. What part of that is your fault?”

“I–” 

He chokes on his words. “But I was _in it,_ Dean. You thought I’d–” 

“It was a _nightmare!”_ Dean shouts, baring his teeth in frustration. “It ain’t about logic, Cas – ain’t about what I actually _think!_ It’s about all the fucked up, worst case scenario shit that sits in the back of my head that I can’t dig out, no matter how hard I fucking try, no matter how much I want to! It’s got nothing to do with _you.”_

Dean takes a breath. “I am fucked up. No,” he snaps, cutting Castiel’s knee jerk protest off at the pass, “I _am._ I think I’m entitled to be.” His voice breaks, some of the anger leaking out when it does. “Think I’ve _earned_ being a little screwed up in the head.”

He doesn’t pull away when Castiel reaches down and holds his hand. He holds it tight. Exhales. 

“And I also think I should be in therapy.” 

The words hang in the room like a gunshot. Castiel does his best to pick his jaw up off the floor. “But I thought–”

“I know what you thought,” Dean says, clenching his jaw. “And I don’t fucking _want_ to. It scares me, the idea that some shrink is gonna be digging around inside my head. But if it _helps,”_ he insists, his voice hoarse and a little desperate, “then I’ll do whatever the hell I need to do.”

Castiel bites his lip. “Helps me, or you?”

Dean scoffs, shrugging. “You. Me. Both. Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he says softly. “It does matter, Dean. I don’t want you to do this just because you think it will help _me.”_

Dean’s face crumples right along with his faux indifference. “I can’t help the way I’m built, Cas,” he pleads. “I _know_ it’s supposed to be for me, but… if I can justify it and say that I’m doing it for you. That I’m doing it for – for Sammy,” he chokes out, a tear streaking down his face, “Then I can do it a lot easier.”

He wipes at his eyes, the movement angry. “It ain’t just last night that convinced me. But it was a good kick in the ass.”

Castiel can’t help himself – he pulls Dean to his chest and buries his face in the man’s hair, so full of love and heartache it feels like he’s going to catch flame. The words are right there, at the precipice of his mouth. Begging to be said and heard and felt. 

“I am so proud of you,” he says instead, and holds Dean as close to his heart as he can. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After asking for y'all's opinion on the Balthazar mini-fic, it seems like most people simply want to read it as quickly as possible - though there are some that advocated to wait for it to be finished completely before posting. I think I'm going to err on the side of instant gratification and start posting that thing now. It's all drafted out, though there are a couple chapters in the middle that remain unfinished So, be on the lookout for chapter one later today! (And, my loyal readers, don't feel pressured to go check that one out iffin you don't wanna. I know lots of y'all are here for one pair of idiots only!)
> 
> Don't forget to let me know what y'all think!


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